Selected Polish tales

Merit's Classics

ccxxx
SELECTED POLISH TALES

SELECTED

POLISH TALES

TRANSLATED BY

ELSE C. M. BENECKE

' AND

MARIE BUSCH

HUMPHREY MILFORD
OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS

LONDON EDINBURGH GLASGOW COPENHAGEN

NEW YORK TORONTO MELBOURNE CAPE TOWN
BOMBAY CALCUTTA MADRAS SHANGHAI PEKING

This selection of Tales by Polish authors was
first published in ' The World's Classics ' in 1921.

7445.

PRINTED IN ENGLAND

AT THE H XJJSJIOII II I PRESS

CONTENTS

PAGE

PREFACE . . . .... . vii

THE OUTPOST. By BOLESLAW PRITS ... 1

A PINCH OF SALT. By ADAM SZYMANSKI . . 227

KOWALSKI THE CARPENTER. By ADAM SZYMANSKI . 239

FOREBODINGS. By STEFAN ZEROMSKI . . . 261

A POLISH SCENE. By WLADYSLAW ST. REYMONT . 269

DEATH. By WLADYSLAW ST. REYMONT . . 282

THE SENTENCE. By J. KADEN-BANDROWSKI . . 307

'P. P. C.' By MME RYGIER-NAI.KOWSKA . . 339

PREFACE

MY friend the late Miss Else C. M. Benecke left
a number of Polish stories in rough translation,
and I am carrying out her wishes in editing them
and handing them over to English readers. In
spite of failing health during the last years of her
life, she worked hard at translations from this
beautiful but difficult language, and the two
volumes, Tales by Polish Authors and More Tales
by Polish Authors, published by Mr. Basil Black-
well at Oxford, were among the first attempts to
make modern Polish fiction known in this country.
In both these volumes I collaborated with her.

England is fortunate in counting Joseph Conrad
among her own novelists ; although a Pole by
birth he is one of the greatest masters of English
style. The Polish authors who have written in
their own language have perhaps been most
successful in the short story. Often it is so slight
that it can hardly be called a story, but each of
these sketches conveys a distinct atmosphere of
the country and the people, and shows the in-
dividuality of each writer. The unhappy state
of Poland for more than 150 years has placed
political and social problems in the foreground of
Polish literature. Writers are therefore judged

viii PREFACE

and appraised by their fellow-countrymen as
much by their patriotism as by their literary and
artistic merits.

Of the authors whose work is presented in this
volume Prus (Aleksander Gtowacki), the veteran
of modern Polish novelists, is the one most loved
by his own countrymen. His books are written
partly with a moral object, as each deals with
a social evil. But while he exposes the evil, his
warm heart and strong sense of justice — combined
with a sense of humour — make him fair and even
generous to all.

The poignant appeal of Szymdnski's stories lies
in the fact that they are based on personal ex-
periences. He was banished to Yakutsk in Siberia
for six years when he was quite a young man and
had barely finished his studies at the University
of Warsaw, at a time when every profession of
radicalism, however moderate, was punished
severely by the Russian authorities. He died,
a middle-aged man, during the War, after many
years of literary and journalistic activity in the
interest of his country. Neither he nor Prus lived
to see Poland free and republican, an ideal for
which they had striven.

Zeromski is a writer of intense feeling. If Prus's
kindly and simple tales are the most beloved,
Zeromski's more subtle psychological treatment of
his subjects is the most admired, and he is said to

PREFACE ix

mark an epoch in Polish fiction. In the two
short sketches contained in this volume, as well
as in most of his short stories and longer novels,
the dominant note is human suffering.

Reymont, who is a more impersonal writer and
more detached from his subject, is perhaps the
most artistic among the authors of short stories.
His volume entitled Peasants, from which the two
sketches in this collection are taken, gives very
powerful and realistic pictures of life in the villages.

Kaden-Bandrowski is a very favourite author
in his own country, as many of his short
stories deal with Polish life during the Great War.
In the early part of the War he joined the Polish
Legions which formed the nucleus of Pilsudski's
army, and shared their varying fortunes. During
the greater part of this time he edited a radical
newspaper for his soldiers, in whom he took
a great interest. The story, The Sentence, was
translated by me from a French translation kindly
made by the author.

Mine Rygier-NatkowsJca, who, with Kaden-
Bandrowski, belongs to the youngest group of
Polish writers, is a strong feminist of courageous
views, and a keen satirist of certain national and
social conventions. The present volume only
contains a short sketch — a personal experience of
hers during the early part of the War. It would
be considered a very daring thing for a Polish

x PEEFACE

lady to venture voluntarily into the zone of the
Russian army, but her little sketch shows the
individual Russian to be as human as any other
soldier. This sketch and the first of Reymont's
have been translated by Mr. Joseph Solomon,
whose knowledge of Slavonic languages makes
him a most valuable co-operator.

My share in the work has been to put Miss
Benecke's literal translation into a form suitable
for publication, and to get into touch with the
authors or their representatives, to whom I would
now tender my grateful thanks for their courteous
permission to issue this volume, viz. to Mme
Gtowacka, widow of ' Prus ', to the sons of the late
Mr. Szymanski, to MM. Zeromski, Reymont, Ka-
den-Bandrowski, and to Mme Rygier-Nalkowska,
all of Warsaw.

MARIE BUSCH.

THE OUTPOST

BY

BOLESLAW PRUS

(ALEKSANDER GLOWACKI)

CHAPTER I

THE river Bialka springs from under a hill no
bigger than a cottage ; the water murmurs in its
little hollow like a swarm of bees getting ready for
their flight.

For the distance of fifteen miles the Bialka flows
on level ground. Woods, villages, trees in the
fields, crucifixes by the roadside show up clearly
and become smaller and smaller as they recede
into the distance. It is a bit of country like a round
table on which human beings live like a butterfly
covered by a blue flower. What man finds and
what another leaves him he may eat, but he must
not go too far or fly too high.

Fifteen to twenty miles farther to the south
the country begins to change. The shallow banks
of the Bialka rise and retreat from each other, the
flat fields become undulating, the path leads ever
more frequently and steeply up and down hill.

The plain has disappeared and given place to
a ravine ; you are surrounded by hills of the height
of a many-storied house ; all are covered with
bushes ; sometimes the ascent is steep, sometimes

230 B

2 THE OUTPOST

gradual. The first ravine leads into a second,
wilder and narrower, thence into a succession of
nine or ten. Cold and dampness cling to you when
you walk through them ; you climb one of the
hills and find yourself surrounded by a network
of forking and winding ravines.

A short distance from the river-banks the land-
scape is again quite different. The hills grow
smaller and stand separate like great ant-hills.
You have emerged from the country of ravines
into the broad valley of the Bialka, and the bright
sun shines full into your eyes.

If the earth is a table on which Providence has
spread a banquet for creation, then the valley of
the Bialka is a gigantic, long-shaped dish with
upturned rim. In the winter this dish is white,
but at other seasons it is like majolica, with forms
severe and irregular, but beautiful. The Divine
Potter has placed a field at the bottom of the dish
and cut it through from north to south with the
ribbon of the Bialka sparkling with waves of
sapphire blue in the morning, crimson in the
evening, golden at midday, and silver in moonlit
nights.

When He had formed the bottom, the Great
Potter shaped the rim, taking care that each side
should possess an individual physiognomy.

The west bank is wild ; the field touches the
steep gravel hills, where a few scattered hawthorn
bushes and dwarf birches grow. Patches of earth
show here and there, as though the turf had been
peeled. Even the hardiest plants eschew these
patches, where instead of vegetation the surface
presents clay and strata of sand, or else rock
showing its teeth to the green field.

THE OUTPOST 3

The east bank has a totally different character ;
it forms an amphitheatre with three tiers. The
first tier above the field is of mould and contains
a row of cottages surrounded by trees \ this is the
village. On the second tier, where the ground is
clay, stands the manor-house, almost on top of the
village, with which an avenue of old lime-trees
connects it. To the right and left extend the
manor-fields, large a?nd rectangular, sown with
wheat, rye, and peas, or else lying fallow. The
sandy soil of the third tier is sown with rye or oats
and fringed by the pine-forest, its contours showing
black against the sky.

The northern ridge contains little hills standing
singly. One of them is the highest in the neigh-
bourhood and is crowned by a solitary pine. This
hill, together with two others, is the property of the
gospodarz x Josef Slimak.

The gospodarstwo is like a hermitage ; it is
a long way from the village and still farther from
the manor-house.

Slimak's cottage is by the roadside, the front
door opening on to the road, the back door into the
yard ; the cowhouse and pigsty are under one roof,
the barn, stable, and cart-shed forming the other
three sides of the square courtyard.

The peasants chaff Slimak for living in exile like
a Sibiriak.2 It is true, they say, that he lives

1 Gospodarz : the owner of a small holding, as distinct
from the villager, who owns no land and is simply an agri-
cultural labourer. The word, which means host, master
of the house, will be used throughout the book.

Gospodyni : hostess, mistress of the holding.
Gospodarstwo : the property.

2 Sibiriak: a person of European birth or extraction,
living in Siberia.

4 THE OUTPOST

nearer to the church, but on the other hand he has
no one to open his mouth to.

However, his solitude is not complete. On
a warm autumn day, when the white-coated
gospodarz is ploughing on the hill with a pair of
horses, you can see his wife and a girl, both in red
petticoats, digging up potatoes.

Between the hills the thirteen-year-old Jendrek1
minds the cows and performs strange antics mean-
while to amuse himself. If you look more closely
you will also find the eight-year-old Stasiek2 with
hair as white as flax, who roams through the
ravines or sits under the lonely pine on the hill
and looks thoughtfully into the valley.

That gospodarstwo — a drop in the sea of human
interest—was a small world in itself which had
gone through various phases and had a history of
its own.

For instance, there was the time when Josef
Slimak had scarcely seven acres of land and only
his wife in the cottage. Then there came two
surprises, his wife bore him a son — Jendrek, — and
as the result of the servituty3 his holding was
increased by three acres.

Both these circumstances created a great change
in the gospodarz's life ; he bought another cow
and pig and occasionally hired a labourer.

1 Polish spelling, Jedrek (pronounced as given, Jendrek,
with the French sound of en) : Andrew.

2 Stasiek : diminutive of Stanislas.

3 Servituty are pieces of land which, on the abolition
of serfdom, the landowners had to cede to the peasants
formerly their serfs. The settlement was left to the
discretion of the owners, and much bargaining and dis
content on both sides resulted therefrom ; the peasants
had to pay percentage either in labour or in produce to the
landowner.

THE OUTPOST 5

years later his second son, Stasiek, was
bom. Then Slimakowa * hired a woman by way
of an experiment for half a year to help her with
the work.

Sobieska stayed for nine months, then one night
she escaped to the village, her longing for the
public-house having become too strong. Her place
was taken by ' Silly Zoska ' 2 for another six
months. Slimakowa was always hoping that the
work would grow less, and she would be able to
dispense with a servant. However, ' Silly Zoska '
stayed for six years, and when she went into
service at the manor the work at the cottage had
not grown less. So the gospodyni engaged a fifteen-
year-old orphan, Magda, who preferred to go into
service, although she had a cow, a bit of land, and
half a cottage of her own. She said that her uncle
beat her too much, and that her other relations
only offered her the cold comfort that the more
he applied the stick the better it would be for her.

Up till then Slimak had chiefly done his own
farm work and rarely hired a labourer. This still left
him time to go to work at the manor with his horses,
or to carry goods from the tojtfn for the Jews.

When, however, he was summoned more and
more often to the manor, he found that the day-
labourer was not sufficient, and began to lookv out
for a permanent farm-hand.

One autumn day, after his wife had been rating
him severely for not yet having found a farm-
hand, it chanced that Maciek Owczarz,3 whose foot

1 Slimakowa : Polish form for Mrs. Slimak.

* Zoska : diminutive of Sophia.

* Pronunciation approximately : Ovcharge. Maciek
(pron. Machik) : Matthew.

6 THE OUTPOST

had been crushed under a cart, came out of the
hospital. The lame man's road led him past
Slimak's cottage ; tired and miserable he sat down
on a stone by the gate and looked longingly into
the entrance. The gqspodyni was boiling potatoes
for the pigs, and the smell was so good, as the little
puffs of steam spread along the highroad, that it
went into the very pit of Maciek's stomach. He
sat there in fascination, unable to move.

' Is that you, Owczarz ? * Slimakowa asked,
hardly recognizing the poor wretch in his rags.

' Indeed, it is I,' the man answered miserably.

' They said in the village that you had been
killed.'

' I have been worse off than that ; I have been
in the hospital. I wish I had been left under the
cart, I shouldn't be so hungry now.'

The gospodyni became thoughtful.

' If only one could be sure that you wouldn't die,
you could stay here as our farm-hand.'

The poor fellow jumped up from his seat and
walked to the door, dragging his foot.

' Why should I die ? ' he cried, ' I am quite
well, and when I ta,ve a bit to eat I can do the
work of two. Give me barszcz1 and I will chop
up a cartload of wood for you. Try me for a week,
and I will plough all those fields. I will serve you
for old clothes and patched boots, so long as I have
a, shelter for the winter.'

Here Maciek paused, astonished at himself
for having said so much, for he was silent by
nature.

1 Pronunciation approximately : barsht. The national
dish of the peasants ; it is made with beetroot and bread,
tastes slightly sour, and is said to be delicious.

THE OUTPOST 7

Slimakowa looked him up and down, gave him
a bowl of barszcz and another of potatoes, and told
him to wash in the river. When her husband came
home in the evening Maciek was introduced to him
as the farm-hand who had already chopped wood
and fed the cattle.

Slimak listened in silence. As he was tender-
hearted he said, after a pause :

' Well, stay with us, good man. It will be better
for us and better for you. And if ever — God grant
that may not happen — there should be no bread
in the cottage at all, then you will be no worse off
than you are to-day. Rest, and you will set about
your work all right.'

Thus it came about that this new inmate was
received into the cottage. He was quiet as a mouse,
faithful tits a dog, and industrious as a pair of
horses, in spite of his lameness.

After that, with the exception of the yellow
dog Burek, no additions were made to Slimak's
household, neither children nor servants nor
property. Life at the gospodarstwo went with
perfect regularity. All the labour, anxiety, and
hopes of these human beings centred in the one
aim : daily bread. For this the girl carried in the
firewood, or, singing and jumping, ran to the pit
for potatoes. For this the gospodyni milked the
cows at daybreak, baked bread, and moved her
saucepans on and off the fire. For this Maciek,
perspiring, dragged his lame leg after the plough
and harrow, and Slimak, murmuring his morning-
prayers, went at dawn to the manor-barn or drove
into the town to deliver the corn which he had sold
to the Jews.

For the same reason they worried when there

8 THE OUTPOST

was not enough snow on the rye in winter, or
when they could not get enough fodder for the
cattle ; or prayed for rain in May and for fine
weather at the end of June. On this account they
would calculate after the harvest how much corn
they would get out of a korzec,1 and what prices it
would fetch. Like bees round a hive their thoughts
swarmed round the question of daily bread. They
never moved far from this subject, and to leave it
aside altogether was impossible. They even said
with pride that, as gentlemen were in the world to
enjoy themselves and to order people about, so
peasants existed for the purpose of feeding them-
selves and others.

CHAPTER II

IT was April. After their dinner Slimak's house-
hold dispersed to bheir different occupations. The
gospodyni, tying a red handkerchief round her
head and a white linen one round her neck, ran
down to the river. Stasiek followed 'her, looking
at the clouds and observing to himself that they
were different every day. Magda busied herself
washing up the dinner things, singing 'Oh, da,
da ', louder and louder in proportion as the
mistress went farther away. Jendrek began push-
ing Magda about, pulling the dog's tail and
whistling penetratingly ; finally he ran out with
a spade into the orchard. Slimak sat by the stove.
He was a man of medium height with a broad
chest and powerful shoulders. He had a calm face,

1 A korzec is twelve hundred sheaves.

THE OUTPOST 9

short moustache, and thick straight hair falling
abundantly over his forehead and on to his neck.
A red-glass stud set in brass shone in his sacking
shirt. He rested the elbow of his left arm on his
right fist and smoked a pipe, but when his eyes
closed and his head fell too far forward, he righted
himself and rested his right elbow on his left fist.
He puffed out the grey smoke and dozed alter-
nately, spitting now arid then into the middle of
the room or shifting his hands. When the pipe-
stem began to twitter like a young sparrow, he
knocked the bowl a few times against the bench,
emptied the ashes, and poked his finger down.
Yawning, he got up and laid the pipe on the shelf.

He glanced under his brows at Magda and
shrugged his shoulders. The liveliness of the girl
who skipped about while she was washing her
dishes, roused a contemptuous compassion in him.
He knew well what it felt like to have no desire
for skipping about, and how great the weight of
a man's head, hands, and feet can be when he has
been hard at work.

He put on his thick hobnailed boots and a stiff
sukmana,1 fastened a hard strap round his waist,
and put on his high sheepskin cap. The heaviness
in his limbs increased, and it came into bis mind
that it would be more suitable to be buried in
a bundle of straw after a huge bowl of peeled
barley-soup and another of cheese dumplings,
than to go to work. But he put this thought aside,
and went out slowly into the yard. In his snuff-
coloured sukmana and black cap he looked like
the stem of a pine, burnt at the top.

1 Sulcmana, a long linen coat, often elaborately em-
broidered.

B 3

10 THE OUTPOST

The barn door was open, and by sheer perversity
some bundles of straw were peeping out, luring
Slimak to a doze. But he turned away his head
and looked at one of the hills where he had sown oats
that morning. He fancied the yellow grain in the
furrows was looking frightened, as if trying in vain
to hide from the sparrows that were picking it up.

' You will eat me up altogether,' Slimak mut-
tered. With heavy steps he approached the shed,
took out the two harrows, and led the chestnuts
out of the stable ; one was yawning and the other
moved his lips, looking at Slimak and blinking his
eyes, as if he thought : ' Would you not prefer to
doze and not to drag us up the hill ? Didn't we
do enough work for you yesterday ? } Slimak
nodded, as if in answer, and drove off.

Seen from below, the thick-set man and the
horses with heads hanging down, seemed to
harrow the blue sky, moving a few hundred paces
backward and forward. As often as they reached
the edge of the sown field, a flight of sparrows rose
up, twittering angrily, and flew over them like
a cloud, then settled at the other end, shrieking
continually in astonishment that earth should be
poured on to such lovely grain.

' Silly fool ! Silly fool ! What a silly fool ! '
they cried.

' Bah 1 ' murmured Slimak, cracking his whip
at, them, 'if I listened to you idlers, you and
I would both starve under the fence. The beggars
are playing the deuce here ! '

Certainly Slimak got little encouragement in his
labour. Not only that the sparrows noisily
criticized his work, and the chestnuts scornfully
whisked their tails under his nose, but the harrows

THE OUTPOST 11

also objected, and resisted at every little stone or
clod of earth. The tired horses continually
stumbled, and when Slimak cried ' Woa, my lads ! '
and they went on, the harrows again resisted and
pulled them back. When the worried harrows
moved on for a bit, stones got into the horses*
feet or under his own shoes, or choked up, and even
broke the teeth of the harrows. Even the ungrate-
ful earth offered resistance.

' You are worse than a pig ! ' the man said
angrily. ' If I took to scratching a pig's back with
a horsecomb, it would lie down quietly and grunt
with gratitude. But you are always bristling, as
if I did you an injury ! '

The sun took up the affronted earth's cause, and
threw a great sheaf of light across the ashen-
coloured field, where dark and yellow patches
were visible.

* Look at that black patch,' said the sun, ' the
hill was all black like that when your father sowed
wheat on it. And now look at the yellow patch
where the stony ground comes out from under the
mould and will soon possess all your land.'

4 But that is not my fault,' said Slimak.

* Not your fault ? ' whispered the earth ; ' you
yourself eat three times a day, but how often do
you feed me ? It is much if it is once in eight
years. And then you think you give me a great
deal, but a dog would starve on such fare. You
know that you always grudge me the manure,
shame on you ! '

The penitent peasant hung his head.

' And you sleep twice in twenty-four hours
unless your wife drives you to work, but how much
rest do you give me ? Once in ten years, and then

12 THE OUTPOST

your cattle trample upon me. So I am to be con-
tent with being harrowed ? Just try giving no
hay or litter to your cows, only scratch them and
see whether they will give you milk. They will
get ill, the slaughterer will have to be sent for, and
even the Jew will give you nothing for their hides.'

4 Oh dear, oh dear ! ' sighed the peasant,
acknowledging that the earth was right. But no
one pitied or comforted him — on the contrary !
The west wind rose, and twining itself among the
dry stalks on the field- paths, whistled :

' Look sharp, you'll catch it ! I will bring such
a deluge of rain that the remainder of the mould
will be spurted on to the highroad or into the
manor -fields. And though you should harrow
with your own teeth, you shall get less and less
comfort every year ! I will make everything
sterile ! '

The wind was not threatening in vain. In
Slimak's father's time ten korzy of sheaves an
acre had been harvested here. Now he had to be
thankful for seven, and what was going to happen
in the future ?

' That 's a peasant's lot,' murmured Slimak,
* work, work, work, and from one,, difficulty you
get into another. If only it could be otherwise, if
only I could manage to have another cow and
perhaps get that little meadow. . . .'

His whip was pointed at the green field by the
Bialka.

But the sparrows only twittered ' You fool ! '
and the earth groaned : ' You are starving me ! '

He stopped the horses and looked around him
to divert his thoughts.

Jendrek was digging between the cottage and

THE OUTPOST 13

the highroad, throwing stones at the birds now
and then or singing out of tune :

' God grant you, God grant you
That I may not find you,
For else, my fair maid,
You should open your gate.'

And Magda answered from within :

' Although I am poor
And nay mother was poor,
I '11 not at the gate
Kiss you early or late.'

Slimak turned towards the river where his wife
could be plainly seen in her white chemise and red
skirt, bending over the water and beating the linen
with a stick until the valley rang. Stasiek had
already strayed farther towards the ravines.
Sometimes he knelt down on the bank and gazed
into the river, supported on his elbows. Slimak
smiled.

* Peering again ! What does he see down
there ? ' he whispered.

Stasiek was his favourite, and struck him as an
unusual child, who could see things that others
did not see.

While Slimak cracked his whip and the houses
went on, his thoughts were travelling in the
direction of the desired field.

' How much land have I got ? ' he meditated,
' ten acres ; if I had only sown six or seven every
year and let the rest lie fallow, how could I have
fed my hungry family ? And the man, he eats as
much as I do, though he is lame ; and he has fifteen
roubles wages besides. Magda eats less, but then
she is lazy enough to make a dog howl. I'm lucky
when they want me for work at the manor, or if

14 THE OUTPOST

a Jewess hires my horses to go for a drive, or my
wife sells butter and eggs. And what is there
saved when all is said and done ? Perhaps fifty
roubles in the whole year. When we were first
married, a hundred did not astonish me. Manure
the ground indeed ! Let the squire take it into his
head not to employ me, or not to sell me fodder,
what then ? I should have to drive the cattle to
market and die of hunger.

' I am not as well off as G-ryb or Lukasiak or
Sarnecki. They live like gentlemen. One drives
to church with his wife, the other wears a cap like
a burgher, and the third would like to turn out the
Wojt l and wear the chain himself. But I have to
say to myself, ' Be poor on ten acres and go and
bow and scrape to the bailiff at the manor that he
may remember you. Well, let it be as it is ! Better
be master on a square yard of your own than
a beggar on another's large estate.' A cloud of
dust was rising on the high-road beyond the river.
Some one was coming towards the bridge from the
manor-house, riding in a peculiar fashion. The
wind blew from behind, but the dust was so thick
that sometimes it travelled backwards. Occa-
sionally horse and rider showed above it, but the
next moment it whirled round and round them
again, as if the road was raising a storm. Slimak
shaded his eyes with his hand.

The designations Wojt and Soltys are derived from
the German Vogt and Schultheiss. Their functions in the
townships or villages are of a different kind ; in small
villages there may be only one of these functionaries^
the Soltys. He is the representative of the Government,
collects rates and taxes and requisitions horses for the
army. The Wojt is head of the village, and magistrate.
All legal matters would be referred to him.

THE OUTPOST

15

' What an odd way of riding ? who can it be ?
not the squire, nor his coachman. He can't be
a Catholic, not even a Jew ; for although a Jew
would bob up and down on the horse as he does,
he would never make a horse go in that reckless
way. It must be some crazy stranger.'

The rider had now come near enough for Slimak
to see what he was like. He was slim and dressed
in gentleman's clothes, consisting of a light suit
and velvet jockey cap. He had eyeglasses on his
nose and a cigar in bis mouth, and he was carrying
his riding whip under his arm, holding the reins in
both hands between the horse's neck and his own
beard, while he was shaking violently up and
down ; he hugged the saddle so tightly with his
bow legs that his trousers were rucked up, showing
his calves.

Anyone in the very least acquainted with
equestrian matters could guess that this was the
first time the rider had sat upon a horse, or that
the horse had carried such a rider. At moments
they seemed to be ambling along harmoniously,
until the bobbing cavalier would lose his balance
and tug at the reins ; then the horse, which had
a soft mouth, would turn sideways or stand still ;
the rider would then smack his lips, and if this had
no effect he would fumble for the whip. The horse,
guessing what was required, would start again,
shaking him up and down until he looked like
a rag doll badly sewn together.

All this did not upset his temper, for indeed,
this was the first time the rider had realized the
dearest wish of a lifetime, and he was enjoying
himself to the full.

Sometimes the quiet but desperate horse would

16 THE OUTPOST

break into a gallop. Then the rider, keeping his
balance by a miracle, would drop his bridle-
fantasias and imagine himself a cavalry captain
riding to the attack at the head of his squadron,
until, unaccustomed to his rank of officer, he
would perform some unexpected movement which
made the horse suddenly stand still again, and
would cause the gallant captain to hit his nose or
his cigar against the neck of his steed.

He was, moreover, a democratic gentleman.
When the horse took a fancy to trot towards the
village instead of towards the bridge, a crowd of
dogs and children ran after him with every sign of
pleasure. Instead of annoyance a benevolent
enjoyment would then take possession of him, for
next to riding exercise he passionately loved the
people, because they could manage horses. After
a while, however, his role of cavalry captain would
please him more, and after further performances
with the reins, he succeeded in turning back
towards the bridge. He evidently intended to ride
through the length and breadth of the valley.

Slimak was still watching him.

' Eh, that must be the squire's brother-in-law,
who was expected from Warsaw,' he said to him-
self, much amused; t our squire chose a gracious
little wife, and was not even very long about it ;
but he might have searched the length of the
world for a brother-in-law like that ! A bear
would be a commoner sight in these parts than
a man sitting a horse as he does ! He looks as
stupid as a cowherd — still, he is the squire's
brother-in-law.'

While Slimak was thus taking the measure of this
friend of the people, the latter had reached the

THE OUTPOST 17

bridge ; the noise of Slimakowa's stick had
attracted his attention. He turned the horse
towards the bridge-rail and craned his neck over
the water ; indeed, his slim figure and peaked
jockey cap made him look uncommonly like
a crane.

' What does he want now ? ' thought Slimak.
The horseman was evidently asking Slimakowa
a question, for she got up and raised her head.
Slimak noticed for the first time that she was in the
habit of tucking up her skirts very high, showing
her bare knees.

' What the deuce does he want ? ' he repeated,
objecting to the short skirt.

The cavalier rode off the bridge with no -little
difficulty and reined up beside the woman. Slimak
was now watching breathlessly.

Suddenly the young man stretched out his hand
towards Slimakowa's neck, but she raised her stick
so threateningly that the scared horse started away
at a gallop, and the rider was left clinging to his
neck.

* Jagna ! what are you doing ? ' shouted Slimak ;
' that 's the squire's brother-in-law, you fool ! '

But the shout did not reach her, and the young
man did not seem at all offended. He kissed his
hand to Slimakowa and dug his heels into the
horse, which threw up its head and started in the
direction of the cottage at a sharp trot. But this
time success did not attend the rider, his feet
slipped out of the stirrups, and clutching his
charger by the mane, he shouted : * Stop, you
devil ! '

Jendrek heard the cry, clambered on to the
gate, and seeing the strange performance, burst

18 THE OUTPOST

oufc laughing. The ridei's jockey cap fell off.
' Pick up the cap, my boy,' the horseman called
out in passing.

1 Pick it up yourself/ laughed Jendrek, clapping
his hands to excite the horse still more.

The father listened to the boy's answer speech-
less with astonishment, but he soon recovered
himself.

* Jendrek, you young dbg, give the gentleman
his cap when he tells you ! ' he cried.

Jendrek took the jockey cap between two fingers,
holding it in front of him and offering it to the
rider when he had succeeded in stopping his horse.

' Thank you, thank you very much,' he said, no
less amused than Jendrek himself.

1 Jendrek, take off your cap to the gentleman at
once,' called Slimak.

* Why should I take off my cap to everybody ? '
asked the lad saucily.

* Excellent, that's right ! . . .' The young man
seemed pleased. * Wait, you shall have twenty
kopeks for that ; a free citizen should never humble
himself before anybody.'

Slimak, by no means sharing the gentleman's
democratic theories, advanced towards Jendrek
with his cap in one hand and the whip in the other.

' Citizen ! ' cried the cavalier, ' I beg you not to
beat the boy ... do not crush his independent
soul ... do not . . .' he would have liked to have
continued, but the horse, getting bored, started off
again in the direction of the bridge. When he saw
Slimakowa coming towards the cottage, he took
off his dusty cap and called out :

' Madam, do not let him beat the boy ! *

Jendrek had disappeared.

THE OUTPOST 19

Slimak stood rooted to the spot, pondering upon
this queer fish, who first was impertinent to his
wife, then called her ' Madam ', and himself
* Citizen ', and praised Jendrek for his cheek.

He returned angrily to his horses.

' Woa, lads ! what 's the world coming to ?
A peasant's son won't take off his cap to a gentle-
man, and the gentleman praises him for it ! He
is the squire's brother-in-law — all the same, he
musb be a little wrong in his head. Soon there will
be no gentlemen left, and then the peasants will
have to die. Maybe when Jendrek grows up he
will look after himself ; he won't be a peasant,
that's clear. Woa, lads !'

He imagined Jendrek in button-boots and a
jockey cap, and he spat.

' Bah ! so long as I am about, you won't dress
like that, young dog ! All the same I shall have to
warm his latter end for him, or else he won't take
his cap off to the squire next, and then I can go
begging. It 's the wife's fault, she is always spoiling
him. There's nothing for it, I must give him
a hiding.'

Again dust was rising on the road, this time in the
direction of the plain. Slimak saw two forms, one
tall, the other oblong ; the oblong was walking
behind the tall one and nodding its head.

' Who 's sending a cow to market ? ' he thought,
' . . . well, the boy must be thrashed . . . if only
I could, have another cow and that bit of field.'

He drove the horses down the hill towards the
Bialka, where he caught sight of Stasiek, but could
see nothing more of his farm or of the road. He
was beginning to feel very tired ; his feet seemed
a heavy weight, but the weight of uncertainty was

20 THE OUTPOST

still greater, and he never gob enough sleep. When
his work was finished, he often had to drive off to
the town.

' If I had another cow and that field/ he thought,
' I could sleep more.'

He had been meditating on this while harrowing
over a fresh bit for half an hour, when he heard his
wife calling from the hill :

1 Josef, Josef ! '

c What 's up ? '

' Do you know what has happened ? '

' How should I know ? '

4 Is it a new tax ? ' anxiously crossed his mind.

' Magda's uncle has come, you know, that
Grochowski. . . .'

' If he wants to take the girl back — let him.'

'He has brought a cow and wants to sell her to
Gryb for thirty-five paper roubles and a silver
rouble for the halter. She is a lovely cow.'

' Let him sell her ; what's that to do with me ? '

' This much : that you are going to buy her,'
said the woman firmly.

Slimak dropped his hand with the whip, bent his
head forward, and looked at his wife. The proposal
seemed monstrous.

' What 's wrong with you ? ' he asked.

' Wrong with me ? ' She raised her voice.
' Can't I afford the cow ? Gryb has bought his
wife a new cart, and you grudge me the beasts ?
There are two cows in the shed ; do you ever
trouble about them ? You wouldn't have a shirt
to your back if it weren't for them.'

' Good Lord,' groaned the man, who was getting
muddled by his wife's eloquence, ' how am I to feed
her ? they won't sell me fodder from the manor.'

THE OUTPOST 21

' Rent that field, and you will have fodder.'

' Fear God, Jagna ! what are you saying ? How
am I to rent that field ? '

' Go to the manor and ask the squire , say you
will pay up the rent in a year's time.'

' As God lives, the woman is mad ! our beasts
pull a little from that field now for nothing ;
I should be worse off, because I should have to
pay both for the cow and for the field. I won't
go to the squire. '

His wife came close up to him and looked into
his eyes. ' You won't go ? '

* I won't go.}

' Very well, then I will take what fodder there
is and your horses may go to the devil ; but
I won't let that cow go, I will buy her ! '

1 Then buy her.'

' Yes, I will buy her, but you have got to do the
bargaining with Grochowski ; I haven't the time,
and I won't arink vodka with him.'

4 Drink ! bargain with him ! you are mad about
that cow ! '

The quick-tempered woman shook her fist in his
face.

* Josef, don't upset me when you yourself have
nothing at all to propose. Listen ! you are worry-
ing every day that you haven't enough manure ;
you are always telling me that you want three
beasts, and when the time comes, you won't buy
them. The two cows you have cost you nothing
and bring you in produce, the third would be clear
gain. Listen ... I tell you, listen ! Finish your
work, then come indoors and bargain for the cow ;
if not, I'll have nothing more to do with you.'

She turned her back and went off.

22 THE OUTPOST

The man put his hands to his head.

' God bless me, what a woman ! ' he groaned,
' how can I, poor devil, renfc that field ? She
persists in having the cow, and makes a fuss, and
it doesn't matter what you say, you may as well
talk to a- wall. Why was I ever born ? everything
is against me. Woa, lads ! '

He fancied that the earth and the wind were
laughing at him again :

* You'll pay the thirty-five paper roubles and the
silver rouble for the halter ! Week after week,
month after month you have been putting by your
money, and to-day you'll spend it all as if you
were cracking a nut. You will swell Grochowski's
pockets and youi own pouch will be empty. You
will wait in fear and uncertainty at the manor and
bow to the bailiff when it pleases him to give you
the receipt for your rent ! . . .

' Perhaps the squire won't even let me have the
field.'

4 Don't talk nonsense ! ' twittered the sparrows ;
'you know quite well that he'll let you have it.'

' Oh yes, he'll let me have it,' he retorted hotly,
' for my good money. I would rather bear a severe
pain than waste money on such a foolish thing.'

The sun was low by the time Slimak had finished
his last bit of harrowing near the highroad. At
the moment when he stopped he heard the new
cow low. Her voice pleased him and softened his
heart a little.

' Three cows is more than two,' he thought,
4 people will respect me more. But the money . . .
ah well, it 's all my own fault ! '

He remembered how many times he had said
that he must have another cow and that field, and

THE OUTPOST 23

had boasted to his wife that people had encouraged
him to carve his own farm implements, because he
was so clever a b it.

She had listened patiently for two or three
years ; now at last she took things into her own
hands and told him to buy the cow and rent the
field at once. Merciful Jesu ! what a hard woman !
What would she drive him to next ? He would
really have to put up sheds and make farm carts !

Intelligent and even ingenious as Slimak was, he
never dared to do anything fresh unless driven
to it. He understood his farm work thoroughly,
he could even mend the thrashing-machine at the
manor-house, and he kept everything in his head,
beginning with the rotation of crops on his land.
Yet his mind lacked that fine thread which joins
the project to the accomplishment. Instead of this
the sense of obedience was very strongly developed
in him. The squire, the priest, the Wojt, his wife
were all sent from God. He used to say :

' A peasant is in the world to carry out orders.*

The sun was sinking behind the hill crest when
ke drove his horses on to the highroad, and he was
pondering on how he would begin his bargaining
with Grochowski when he heard a guttural voice
behind him, ' Heh ! heh ! '

Two men were standing on the highroad, one
was grey-headed and clean-shaven, and wore a
German peaked cap, the other young and tall,
with a beard and a Polish cap. A two -horse
vehicle was drawn up a little farther back.

' Is that your field ? ' the bearded man asked in
an unpleasant voice.

' Stop, Fritz,' the elder interrupted him.

* What am I to stop for ? ' the other said angrily.

24 THE OUTPOST

* Stop ! Is this your land, gospodarz ? 5 the
grey -haired man asked very politely.

* Of course it 's mine, who else should it belong
to?5

Stasiek came running up from the field at that
moment and looked at the strangers with a mixture
of distrust and admiration.

' And is that your field ? ' the bearded one
repeated.

* Stop, Fritz ! Is it your field, gospodarz ? ' the
old man corrected him.

' It 's not mine ; it belongs to the manor.5
1 And whose is the hill with the pine ? 5
' Stop, Fritz

* Oh well, if you are going to interrupt all tbe
time, father. . . .5

* Stop ... is the hill yours, gospodarz ? '

* It 's mine ; no one else5s.5

* There you are, Fritz,5 the old man said in
German ; * that 5s the very place for Wilhelm5s
windmill.5

1 The reason why Wilhelm has not yet put up
a windmill is not that there are no hills, but that
he is a lazy fellow.5

* Don't be disagreeable, Fritz ! Then those
fields beyond the highroad and the ravines are not
yours, gospodarz ? '

' How should they be, when they belong to the
manor ? 5

* Oh yes,5 the bearded one interrupted im-
patiently ; ' everyone knows that he sits here in the
manor-fields like a hole in a biidge. The devil take
the whole business.'

1 Wai t, Fritz ! Do the manor -fields surround
you on all sides, gospodarz ? 5

THE OUTPOST

25

c Of course.'

' Well, that will do,' said the younger man,
drawing his father towards the carriage.

' God bless you, gospodarz,' said the elder,
touching his cap.

' What a gossip you are, father ! Wilhelm will
never do anything ; you may find him ever so
many hills.'

' What do they want, daddy ? ' Stasiek asked
suddenly.

' Ah, yes ! true ! '

Slimak was roused : ' Heh, sir ! '

The older man looked round.

' What are you asking me all those questions for ? '

' Because it pleases us to do so,' the younger
man answered, pushing his father into the carriage.

* Farewell ! we shall meet again ! ' cried the
old man.

The carriage rolled away.

' What a crew they are on the highroad to-day,
it 's like a fair ! ' said Slimak.

* But who are those people, daddy ? '

* Those ? They must be Germans from Wolka,
twelve miles from here.'

* Why did they ask so many questions about
your land ? '

' They are not the only ones to do thafc, child.
This country pleases people so much that they
come over here from a long way off ; they come
as far as the pine hill and then they go away again.
That is all I know about them.'

He turned the horses homeward and was already
forgetting the Germans. The cow and the field
were engaging all his thoughts. Supposing he
bought her ! he would be able to manure the

26 THE OUTPOST

ground better, and he might even pay an old man
to come to the cottage for the winter and teach his
boys to read and write. What would the other
peasants say to that ? It would greatly improve
his position ; he would have a better place in
chuich and at the inn, and with greater prosperity
he would be able to take more rest.

Oh, for more rest ! Slimak had never known
hunger or cold, he had a good home and human
affection, and he would have been quite happy
if only his bones had not ached so much, and if he
could have lain down or sat still to his heart's
content.

CHAPTER III

RETURNING to the courtyard, Slimak let Maciek
take the horses. He looked at the cow, which was
tied to the fence. Despite the falling darkness
he could see that she was a beautiful creature ;
she was white with black patches, had a small
head, short horns and a large udder. He examined
her and admitted that neither of his cows were as
fine as this one.

He thought of leading her round the yard, but he
suddenly felt as if he could not move another step,
his arms seemed to be dropping from their joints
and his legs were sinking. Until sunset a man can
go on harrowing, but after sunset it is no good try-
ing to do anything more. So he patted the cow
instead of leading her about. She seemed to under-
stand the situation, for she turned her head towards
him and touched his hand with her wet mouth.
Slimak was so overcome with emotion that he

THE OUTPOST 27

very nearly kissed her, as if she were a human
being.

' I must buy her,' he muttered, forgetting even
his tiredness.

The gospodyni stood in the door with a pail of
dishwater for the cattle.

' Maciek,' she called, ' when the cow has had
a drink, lead her to the cowshed. The Soltys will
stay the night ; the cow can't be left out of doors.'

' Well, what next ? ' asked Slimak.

' What has to be, has to be,' she replied. ' He
wants the thirty-five roubles and the silver rouble
for the halter — but,' she continued after a pause,
' truth is truth, she is worth it. I milked her, and
though she had been on the road, she gave more
milk than Lysa.'

' Have you asked him whether he won't come
down a bit ? '

The peasant again felt the weariness in all his
limbs. Good God ! how many hours of sleep would
have to be sacrificed, before he could make another
thirty-five roubles !

' Not likely ! It 's something that he will sell her
to us at all ; he keeps on saying he promised her to
Gryb.'

Slimak scratched his head.

' Come, Josef, be friendly and drink vodka with
him, then perhaps the Lord Jesus will give him
reflection. But keep looking at me, and don't talk
too much ; you will see, it will turn out all right.'

Maciek led the cow to the shed ; she looked about
and whisked her tail so heartily that Slimak could
not take his eyes off her.

* It 's God's will,' he murmured. ' I'll bargain
for her.'

28 THE OUTPOST

He crossed himself at the door, but his heart was
trembling in anticipation of all the difficulties.

His guest was sitting by the fire and admonishing
Magda in fatherly fashion to be faithful and
obedient to her master and mistress.

' If they order you into the water — jump into
the water ; if they order you into the fire — go into
the fire ; and if the mistress gives you a good
hiding, kiss her hand and thank her, for I tell you :
sacred is the hand that strikes. . . .'

As he said this the red light of the fire fell upon
him ; he had raised his hand and looked like
a preacher.

Magda fancied that the trembling shadow on the
wall was repeating : e Sacred is the hand that
strikes ! '

She wept copiously ; she felt she was listening to
a beautiful sermon, but at the same time blue
stripes seemed to be swelling on her back at his
words. Yet she listened without fear or regret,
only with dim gratitude, mingled with recollections
of her childhood.

The door opened and Slimak said :

' The Lord be praised.'

' In all eternity/ answered Grochowski. When
he stood up, his head nearly touched the ceiling.

' May God repay you, Soltys, for coming to us,'
said Slimak, shaking his hand.

' May God repay you for your kindness in
receiving me.'

' And say at once, should you be uncomfortable.'

' Eh ! I'm not half so comfortable at home, and
it 's not only to me but also to the cow that you are
giving hospitality.'

' Praise God that you are satisfied.'

THE OUTPOST 29

' I am doubly satisfied, because I see how well
you are treating Magda. Magda ! fall at your
master's feet at once, for your father could not
treat you better. And you, neighbour, don't spare
the strap.'

' She's not a bad girl,' said Slimak.

Sobbing heartily the girl fell first at her uncle's
feet, then at the gospodarz's, and then escaped into
the passage. She hugged herself and still emitted
great sobs ; but her eyes were dry. She began
calling softly in a mournful voice : ' Pig ! pig ! pig ! '
But the pigs had turned in for the night. Instead
Jendrek and Stasiek with the dog Burek emerged
from the twilight. Jendrek wanted to push her
over, but she gave him a punch in the eye. The
boys seized her by the arms, Burek followed, and
shrieking and barking and inextricably entwined so
that one could not tell which was child and which
was dog, all four melted into the mists that were
hanging over the meadows.

Sitting by the stove, the two gospodarze were
talking.

* How is it you are getting rid of the cow ? '

' You see, it 's like this. That cow is not mine,
it belongs to Magda, but my wife says she doesn't
care about looking after somebody else's cow, and
the shed is too small for ours as it is. I don't pay
much attention to her usually, but it happens that
there is a bit of land to be sold adjoining Magda's.
Komara, to whom it belonged, has drunk himself
to death. So I am thinking : I will sell the cow and
buy the girl another acre — land is land.'

' That 's true ! ' sighed Slimak.

' And as there will be new servituty, the girl wi]l
get even more.'

30 THE OUTPOST ,

' How is that ? ' Slimak became interested.

' They will give you twice as much as you possess ;
I possess twenty-five acres, so I shall have fifty;-
How many have you got ? '

' Ten.' '

' Then you will have twenty, and Magda will
get another two and a half with her own.'

' Is it certain about the servituty ? '

' Who can tell ? some say it is, others laugh
about it. But I am thinking I will buy this land
while there is the chance, especially as my wife
does not wish it.'

' Then what is the good of buying the land if
you will shortly get it for nothing ? '

* The truth is, as it 's not my money I don't
care how I spend it. If I were you I shouldn't be in
a hurry to rent from the manor either ; there is no
harm in waiting. The wise man is never in a hurry. '

' No, the wise man goes slowly,' Slimak deliber-
ated.

The gospodyni appeared at that moment with
Maciek. They went into the alcove, drew two
chairs and the cherry wood table into the middle of
it, covered it with a cloth and placed a petroleum
lamp without a chimney on it.

'Come, Soltys,' called the gospodyni, 'you will
have supper more comfortably in here.'

Maciek, with a broad smile, retired awkwardly
behind the stove as the two gospodarze went into
the alcove.

' What a beautiful room,' said Grochowski,
looking round, ' plenty of holy pictures on the walls,
a painted bed, a wooden floor and flowers in the
windows. That must be your doing, gospodyni ? '

' Why, yes,' said the woman, pleased, * he is

THE OUTPOST 31

always at the manor or in the town and doesn't
care about his home ; it was all I could do to make
him lay the floor. Be so kind as to sit near the
stove, neighbour, I'll get supper.'

She poured out a large bowl of peeled barley
soup and put it on the table, and a small one for
Maciek.

' Eat in God's name, and if you want anything,
say so.'

' But are not you going to sit down ? '

' I always eat last with the children. Maciek,
you may take your bowl.'

Maciek, grinning, took his portion and sat down
on a bench opposite the alcove, so that he could
see the Soltys and listen to human intercourse, for
which he was longing. He looked contentedly
from behind his steaming bowl at the table ; the
smoking lamp seemed to him the most brilliant
illumination, and the wooden chairs the height
of comfort. The sight of the Soltys, who was lolling
back, filled him with reverence. Was it not he who
had driven him to the recruiting-office when it was
the time for the drawing of lots ? who 'had ordered
him to be taken to the hospital and told him he
would come out completely cured ? who collected
the taxes and carried the largest banner at the pro-
cessions and intoned ' Let us praise the Holy
Virgin ' ? And now he, Maciek Owczarz, was sitting
under one roof with this same Grochowski.

How comfortable he made himself ! Maciek
tried to lean back in the same fashion, but the
scandalized wall pushed him forward, reminding
him that he was not the Soltys. So although his
back ached, he bent still lower and hid his feet in
their torn boots under the bench. Why should

32 THE OUTPOST

he be comfortable ? It was enough if the master
and the Soltys were. He ate his soup and listened
with both ears.

' What makes you take the cow to Gryb ? ' asked
the gospodyni.

4 Because he wants to buy her.'

' We might buy her ourselves.'

/Yes, that might be so,' put in Slimak; 'the girl
is 'here, the cow should be here too.'

' That's right, isn't it, Maciek ? ' asked the
woman.

' Oho, ho ! ' laughed Maciek, till the soup ran
out of his spoon.

' What 's true is true,' said Grochowski ; ' even
Gryb ought to understand that the cow ought to be
where the girl is.'

c Then sell her to us,' Slimak said quickly.

Grochowski dropped his spoon on the table and
his head on his chest. He reflected for a while, then
he said in a tone of resignation :

f There 's no help for it ; as you are quite decided
I must sell you the cow.'

' But you'll take off something for us, won't you ? '
hastily added the woman in an ingratiating tone.

The Soltys reflected once more.

' You see, it 's like this ; if it were my cow I
would come down. But she belongs to a poor
orphan. How could I harm her ? Give me thirty-
five paper roubles and a silver rouble and the cow
will be yours.'

' That 's too much,' sighed Slimak.

' But she is worth it ! ' said the Soltys.

' Still, money sits in the chest and doesn't eat/

' Neither will it give milk.'

k I should have to rent the field.'

THE OUTPOST 33

' That will be cheaper than buying fodder.'

A long silence ensued, then SJimak said :

' Well, neighbour, say your last word.'

' I tell you, thirty-five paper roubles and a silver
rouble. Gryb will be angry, but I'll do this for
you.'

The gospodyni now cleared the bowl off the table
and returned with a bottle of vodka, two glasses,
and a smoked sausage on a plate.

' To your health, neighbour,' said Slimak, pour-
ing out the vodka.

' Drink in God's name ! '

They emptied the glasses and began to chew the
dry sausage in silence. Maciek was so affected by
the sight of the vodka that he folded his hands on
his stomach. It struck him that those two must
be feeling very happy, so he felt happy too.

' I really don't know whether to buy the cow or
not,' said Slimak ; ' your price has taken the wish
from me.'

Grochowski moved uneasily on his chair.

' My dear friend,' he said, ' what am I to do ?
this is the orphan's affair. I have got to buy her
land, if for no other reason but because it annoys
my wife.'

' You won't give thirty-five roubles for an acre.'

' Land is getting dearer, because the Germans
want to buy it.'

' The Germans ? '

* Those who bought Wolka. They want other
Germans to settle near here.'

' There were two Germans near my field asking
me a lot of questions. I didn't know what they
wanted.'

' There you are ! they creep in. Directly one

230 n

34 THE OUTPOST

has settled, others come like ants after honey,
and then the land gets dearer.'

* Do they know anything about peasants' work ? '

* Rather ! They make more profits than we who
are born here. The Germans are clever ; they have
a lot of cattle, sow clover and carry on a trade in
the winter. We can't compete with them.'

' I wonder what their religion is like ? They
talk to each other like Jews.'

' Their religion is better than the Jews',' the
Soltys said, after reflecting ; ' but what is not
Catholic is nothing. They have churches with
benches and an organ; but their priests are married
and go about in overcoats, and where the blessed
Host ought to be on the altar they have a crucifix,
like ours in the porch.'

' That 's not as good as our religion.'

' Why ! ' said Grochowski, ' they don't even
pray to the Blessed Mother.'

The gospodyni crossed herself.

' It 's odd that the Merciful God should bless such
people with prosperity. Drink, neighbour ! '

' To your health ! Why should God not bless
them, when they have a lot of cattle ? That 's at the
bottom of all prosperity.'

Slimak became pensive and suddenly struck his
fist on the table.

' Neighbour,' he cried, raising his voice, ' sell me
the cow ! '

' I will sell her to you,' cried Grochowski, also
striking the table.

' I'll give you . . . thirty-one roubles ... as I love
you.' Grochowski embraced him.

1 Brother . . . give me . . . thirty . . . and four
paper roubles and a silver rouble for the halter.'

THE OUTPOST 35

The tired children cautiously stole into the room ;
the gospodyni poured out some soup for them and
told them to sit in the corner and be quiet. And
quiet they were, except at one moment when
Stasiek fell off the bench and his mother slapped
Jendrek for it. Maciek dozed, dreaming that he
was drinking vodka. He felt the liquor going to
his head and fancied himself sitting by the Soltys
and embracing him. The fumes of the vodka and
the lamp were filling the room. Slimak and
Grochowski moved closer together.

' Neighbour . . . Soltys,' said Slimak, striking the
table again, ' I'll give you whatever you wish,
your word is worth more than money to me, for you
are the cleverest man in the parish. The Wojt
is a pig . . . you are more to me than the Wojt or
even the Government Inspector, for you are
cleverer than they are ... devil take me ! '

They fell on each other's shoulders and Gro-
chowski wept.

' Josef, brother, . . . don't call me Soltys but
brother . . . for we are brothers ! '

' Wojciek . . . Soltys . . . say how much you want
for the cow. I'll give it you, I'll rip myself open to
give it you . . . thirty-five paper roubles and a silver
rouble.'

' Oh dear, oh dear ! ' wailed the gospodyni.
' Weren't you letting the cow go for thirty-three
roubles just now, Soltys ? '

Grochowski raised his tearful eyes first to her,
then to Slimak.

' Was I ? . . . Josef . . . brother . . . I'll give you
the cow for thirty- three roubles. Take her ! let
the orphan starve, so long as you, my brother, get
a prime cow.'

36 THE OUTPOST

Slimak beat a tattoo on the table.

1 Am I to cheat the orphan ? I won't ; I'll give
you thirty-five . . .'

' What are you doing, you fool ? ' his wife inter-
rupted him.

' Yes, don't be foolish,' Grochowski supported
her. ' You h#ve entertained me so finely that I'll
give you the cow for thirty-three roubles. Amen !
that 's my last word.'

'I won't ! ' shouted Slimak. 'Am I a Jew that I
should be paid for hospitality ? '

' Josef ! ' his wife said warningly.

' Go away, woman ! ' he cried, getting up with
difficulty; ' I'll teach you to mix yourself up in my
affairs.'

He suddenly fell into the embrace of the weeping
Grochowski.

' Thirty-five

' Thirty-three . . .' sobbed the Soltys ; ' may I
not burn in hell ! '

' Josef/ his wife said, ' you must respect your
guest ; he is older than you, and he is Soltys.
Maciek, help me to get them into the barn.'

' I'll go by myself,' roared Slimak.

' Thirty-three roubles . . .' groaned Grgchowski,
' chop me to bits, but I won't take a grosz more . . .
I am a Judas ... I wanted to cheat you. I said I
was taking the cow to Gryb . . . but I was bringing
her to you . . . for you are my brother . . .'

They linked arms and made for the window.
Maciek opened the door into the passage, and after
several false starts they reached the courtyard.
The gospodyni took a lantern, rug and pillow, and
followed them. When she reached the yard she
saw Grochowski kneeling and rubbing his eyes with

THE OUTPOST 37

his sukmana and Slimak lying on the manure heap.
Maciek was standing over them.

' We must do something with them,' he said to
the gospodyni ; ' they 've drunk a whole bottle of
vodka.' .

' Get up, you drunkard,' she cried, ' or I'll pour
water over your head.'

' I'll pour itv over you, I'll give you a whipping
presently ! ' her husband shouted back at her.

Grochowski fell on his neck.

' Don't make a hell of your house, brother, or
grief will come to us both.'

Maciek could not wonder enough at the changes
wrought in men by vodka. Here was the Soltys,
known in the whole parish as a hard man, crying like
a child, and Slimak shouting like the bailiff and
disobeying his wife.

' Come to the barn, Soltys,' said Slimakowa,
taking him by one arm while Maciek took the
other. He followed like a lamb, but while she was
preparing his bed on the straw, he fell upon the
threshing-floor and could not be moved by any
manner of means.

'Go to bed, Maciek,' said the gospodyni; 'let
that drunkard lie on the manure-heap, because he
has been so disagreeable.'

Maciek obeyed and went to the stable. When all
was quiet, he began for his amusement to pretend
that he was drunk, and acted the part of Slimak
or the Soltys in turns. He talked in a tearful
voice like Grochowski : ' Don't make a hell of
your house, brother . . .' and in order to make it
more real he tried to make himself cry. At first he
did not succeed, but when he remembered his foot,
and that he was the most miserable creature, and

38 THE OUTPOST

the gospodyni hadn't even given him a glass of
vodka, the tears ran freely from his eyes, until he
too went to sleep.

About midnight Slimak awoke, cold and wet, for
it had begun to rain. Gradually his aching head
remembered the Soltys, the cow, the barley soup
and the large bottle of vodka. What had become
of the vodka ? He was not quite certain on this
point, but he was quite sure that the soup had
disagreed with him. ,

' I always say you should not eat hot barley soup
at night,' he groaned.

He was no longer in doubt whether or no he was
lying on the manure-heap. Slowly he walked up to
the cottage and hesitated on the doorstep ; but the
rain began to faJl more heavily. He stood still in
the passage and listened to Magda's snoring ; then
he cautiously opened the door of the room.

Stasiek lay on the bench under the window,
breathing deeply. There was no sound from the
alcove, and he realized that his wife was not asleep.

' Jagna, make room . . . ' he tried to steady his
voice, but he was seized with fear.

There was no answer.

* Come . . . move up . . . '

* Be off with you, you tippler, and don't come
near me.'

' Where am I to go ?'

' To the manure-heap or the pigsty, that 's your
proper place. You threatened me with the whip !
I'll take it out of you ! '

' What 's the use of talking like that, when
nothing is wrong? ' said Slimak, holding his aching
head.

' Nothing wrong ? You insisted on paying

THE OUTPOST 39

thirty-five paper roubles and a silver rouble when
Grochowski was letting the cow go for thirty-three
roubles. Nothing wrong, indeed ! do three roubles
mean nothing to you ? '

Slimak crept to the bench where Stasiek lay and
touched his feet.

' Is that you, daddy ? ' the boy asked, waking up.

' Yes, it 'B I.'

' What are you doing here ? '

' I'm just sitting down ; something is worrying
me inside.'

The boy put his arms round his neck.

' I'm so glad you have come,' he said ; ' those
two Germans keep coming after me.'

' What Germans ? '

' Those two by our field, the old one and the
man with the beard. They don't say what they
want, but they are walking on me.'

' Go to sleep, child ; there are no Germans here/

Stasiek pressed closer to him and began to
chatter again :

' Isn't it true, daddy, that the water can see ? '

' What should it see ? '

' Everything — everything — the sky, the hills ; it
sees us when we follow the harrows.'

' Go to sleep. Don't talk nonsense.'

' It does, it does, daddy, I've watched it myself/
he whispered, going to sleep.

The room was too hot for Slimak ; he dragged
himself up and staggered to the barn, where he
fell into a bundle of straw.

' But what I gave for the cow I gave for her/
he muttered in the direction of the sleeping
Grochowski.

40 THE OUTPOST

CHAPTER IV

SLIMAKOWA came to the barn early the next
morning and called her husband. ' Are you going
to be long idling there ? '

' What 's the matter ? '

' It 's time to go to the manor-house.'

* Have they sent for me ? '

' Why should they send for you ? You have got
to go to them and see about the field.'

Slimak groaned, but came out on to the thresh-
ing-floor. His face was bloated, he looked ashamed
of himself, and his hair was full of straw.

' Just look at him,' jeered his wife: 'his sukmana
is dirty and wet, he hasn't taken off his boots all
night, and he scowls like a brigand. You are more
fit for a scarecrow in a flaxfield than for talking to
the squire. Change your clothes and go.'

She returned to the cowshed, and a weight fell
off Slimak's mind that the matter had ended there.
He had expected to be jeered at till the afternoon.
He came out into the yard and looked round.
The sun was high, the ground had dried after the
rain ; the wind from the ravines brought the song
of birds and a damp, cheerful smell ; the fields had
become green during the night. The sky looked
as if it had been freshened up, and the cottage
seemed whiter.

* A nice day,' he murmured, gaining courage,
and went indoors to dress. He pulled the straw out
of his hair and put on a clean shirt and new boots.
He thought they did not look polished enough, so
he took a piece of tallow and rubbed it well first
over his hair, then over his boots. Then he stood

THE OUTPOST 41

in front of the glass and smiled contentedly at
the brilliance he reflected from head to foot.

His wife came in at that moment and looked
disdainfully at him.

' What have you been doing to your head ?
You stink of tallow miles off. You'd better comb
your hair.'

Slimak, silently acknowledging the justice of the
remark, took a thick comb from behind the looking-
glass and smoothed his hair till it looked like
polished glass, then he applied the soap to his neck
so energetically that his fingers left large, dark
streaks.

' Where is Grochowski ? ' he asked in a more
cheerful voices for the cold water had added to his
good temper.

' He has gone.'

' What about the money ? '

' I paid him, but he wouldn't take the thirty-
three roubles ; he said that Jesus Christ had lived
in this world for thirty-three years, so it would
not be right for him to take as much as that for
the cow.'

' Very proper,' Slimak agreed, wishing to impress
her with his theological knowledge, but she turned
to the stove and took off a pot of hot barley soup.
Offering it to him with an air of indifference :
4 Don't talk so much,' she said. ' Put something
hot inside you and go to the manor-house. But
just try and bargain as you did with the Soltys and
I shall have something to say to you.'

He sat humbly, eating his soup, and his wife

took some money from the chest. ' Take these

ten roubles,' she said, ' give them to the squire

himself and promise to bring the rest to-morrow.

C 3

42 THE OUTPOST

But mind what he asks for the field, and kiss his
hands, and embrace his and the lady's feet, so that
he may let you off at least three roubles. Will you
remember ? '

' Why shouldn't I remember ? '

He was obviously repeating his wife's admoni-
tions, for he suddenly stopped eating and tapped'
the table rhythmically with the spoon.

' Well, then, don't sit there and think, but put
on your sukmana and go. And take the boys with
you.'

' What for ? '

' What for ? They are to support you when
you ask the squire, and Jendrek will tell me how
you have bargained. Now do you know what
for?'

' Women are a pest ! ' growled Slimak, when she
had unfolded her carefully laid plans. ' Curse her,
how she lords it over me ! You can see that her
father was a bailiff.'

He struggled into his sukmana, which was brand
new and beautifully embroidered at the collar
and pockets with coloured thread ; put on a broad
leather belt, tied the ten roubles up in a rag and
slipped them into his sukmana. The children had
long been ready, and at last they started.

They had no sooner gone than loneliness began
to fill Slimakowa's heart. She went outside the
gate and watched them ; her husband, with his
hands in his pockets, was strolling along the road,
Jendrek on his right and Stasiek on his left.
Presently Jendrek boxed Stasiek's ears and as a
result he was walking on the left and Stasiek on the
right. Then Slimak boxed both their ears, after
which they were both walking on the left, Jendrek

THE OUTPOST 43

in the ditch, so that he could threaten his brother
with his fist.

' Bless them, they always find some nice amuse-
ment for themselves,' she whispered, smiling, and
went back to put on the dinner.

Having settled the misunderstanding between
his sons, Slimak sang softly to himself :

'Your love is no courtier, my own heart's desire,
He 's riding a pony on his way to the squire.'

Then in a more melancholy strain :

' Oh dearie, dearie me,
Thia is great misery.
What shall I do ? . . . '

He sighed, and felt that no song could adequately
express his anxiety. Would the squire let him have
the field ? They were just passing it ; he was
almost afraid to look at it, so beautiful and un-
attainable did it seem. All the fines he had had to
pay for his cattle, all the squire's threats and ad-
monitions came into his mind. It struck him that
if the field lay farther off and produced sand instead
of good grass, he would have a better chance.

' Eh, I don't care ! ' he cried, throwing up his
head with an air of indifference ; ' they've often
asked me to take it.'

That was so, but it had been at times when he
had not wanted it ; now that he did, they would
bargain hard, or not let him have it at all. Who
could tell why that should be so ? It was a law of
nature that landlords and peasants were always at
cross purposes.

He remembered how often he had charged too
much for work done, or how often the gospodarze
had refused to come to terms with the squire about

44 THE OUTPOST

rights of grazing or wood-gathering in the forests,
and he felt contrite. Good Lord ! how beautifully
the squire had spoken to them : ' Let us help each
other and live peaceably like good neighbours.'

And they had answered : 'What 's the good of
being neighbours ? A nobleman is a nobleman and
a peasant is a peasant. We should prefer peasants
for neighbours and you would prefer noblemen.'
Then the squire had cited : ' Remember, the run-
away goat came back to the cart and said, " Put
me in." But I shall say you nay.' And Gryb, in
the name of them all, had answered : ' The goat will
come, your honour, when you throw your forests
open.'

The squire had said nothing, but his trembling
moustaches had warned them that he would not
forget that answer.

' I always told G-ryb not to talk with a long
tongue,' Slimak sighed. ' Now it is I who will have
to suffer for his impudence.'

A new idea came into his head. Why should
he not pay for the field in work instead of cash ?
The squire might accept it, for he wasn't half a bad
gentleman. It was true, the other gospodarze looked
down upon him, because he was the only one who
hired himself out for work; but whatever happened,
the squire would always be the squire, and they
the gospodarze. He hummed again, but under
his breath, so that the boys should not hear him :

' The cuckoo cuckooed in the forest,
Say the neighbours, I am the dullest.'

Suddenly he turned upon Stasiek, and wanted to
know why he was dragging along as if he were
being taken to jail, and didn't talk.

THE OUTPOST 45

' I ... I am wondering why we are going to the
manor ? '

' Don't you want to go ? '

' No ; I am afraid.'

' What is there to be afraid of ? ' snapped Slimak,
but he himself was shivering.

' You see, my boy,' he continued, more kindly,
' we have bought the new cow from the Soltys and
we shall want more hay, so I am going to ask the
squire to let me rent the field.'

' I see. . . . But, daddy, I am always wondering
what the grass thinks when the cows chew it up.'

' What should it think ? It doesn't think at
all.'

' But, daddy, why shouldn't it think ? When
people are standing round the church in a crowd,
they look like grass from a distance, all red and
yellow, like flowers in a field. If some horrible
cow came and lapped them up with her tongue,
wouldn't they be able to think ? '

' People would scream, but the grass says
nothing.'

' It does say something ! A dry stick cracks
when you tread on it, and a fresh branch cries and
clings to the tree when you tear it off, and the grass
squeaks and holds on with its feet, . . . and . . .'

' Oh ! you are always saying queer things,'
interrupted his father ; ' and you, Jendrek, are
you glad that we are going to the manor-house ? '

' Is it I who is going or you ? ' said Jendrek,
shrugging his shoulders. ' I shouldn't go.'

' Well, what would you do ? '

' I should take the hay and stack it in the yard ;
then let them come ! '

' You would dare to cut the squire's hay ? '

46 THE OUTPOST

' How is it his ? Has he sown the grass ? or is the
field near his house ? '

* Don't you see, silly, that the meadow is his
just as well as his other fields ? '

1 They are his, so long as no one takes them. Our
land and our house were his once, now they are

g)urs. Why should he be better off than we are ?
e does nothing, yet he has enough land for a
hundred peasants.'

' He has it because he has it, because he is
a gentleman.'

' Pooh ! If you wore a coat, and your trousers
outside your boots, you would be a gentleman ;
but for all that you wouldn't have the land.'

' You are stupid,' said Slimak, getting angry.

' I know I am stupid, that is because I can't
read or write, but Jasiek Gryb can, and therefore
he is clever, and he says there must be equality,
and there will be when the peasants have taken the
land from the nobility.'

' Jasiek had better leave off taking money from
his father's chest before he disposes of other
people's property ! He might give mine to Maciek
and take the squire's for himself, but he would never
give his own away. Let it be as God has ordered.'

' Did God give the land to the squire ? '

' God has ordered that there should not be
equality in the world. A pine is tall, a hazel is
low, the grass is still lower. Look at sensible
dogs. When a pail of dish-water is brought out
to them, the strongest drinks first, and the others
stand by and lick their lips, although they know
that he will take the best part ; then they all take
their turn. If they start quarrelling, they upset
the pail and the strong get the better of the weak.

THE OUTPOST 47

If people were to say to each other : Disgorge what
you have swallowed, the strong would drive off the
weak and leave them to starve.'

' But if God has given the land to the squire,,
how can they begin to distribute it to the people
now ? '

' They distribute it so that every one should get
what is right for him, not that he should take what
he likes.'

His son's amazing views added a new worry to
Slimak's mind.

' The rascal ! listening to people of that sort f
he'll never make, a peasant ; it 's a mercy he
hasn't stolen yet.'

They were nearing the drive to the manor-house,
and Slimak was walking more and more slowly ;
Stasiek looked more and more frightened, Jendrek
alone kept his saucy air.

Through the dark branches of old lime-trees the
roof and chimneys of the manor became visible.
Suddenly two shots rang out.

' They are shooting ! ' cried Jendrek excitedly,
and ran forward. Stasiek caught hold of his
father's pocket. Slimak called Jendrek, who
returned sulkily. They were now on the terrace,
where the manor-fields stretched on either side.
Lower down lay the village, still lower the field
by the river, in front of them was the manor, with
the outbuildings, enclosed by a railing.

' There ! that 's the manor-house,' said Slimak to
Stasiek. ' Isn't it beautiful ? '

' Which one is it ? J

' Why ! the one with pillars in front.'

Another shot rang out, and they saw a man in
fanciful sportsman's dress.

48 THE OUTPOST

* The horseman of yesterday/ cried Jendrek.

' Ah, that freak ! ' said Slimak, scrutinizing him
with his head on one side ; ' he'll bring me bad luck
about the field.'

' He has a splendid gun,' cried Jendrek ; l but
what is he shooting ? There 's nothing but
sparrows here.'

1 Perhaps he is shooting at us ? ' suggested
Stasiek timidly.

' Why should he be shooting at us ? ' his father re-
assured him ; ' shooting at people isn't allowed. It 's
true there is no knowing what a lunatic might do.J

The sportsman approached, loading his gun ;
the tattered remains of some sparrows hung from
his bag.

' The Lord be praised,' said Slimak, taking off
his cap.

' How do you do, citizen ? ' replied the sportsman,
touching his jockey cap.

' What a lovely gun ! ' sighed Jendrek.

' Do you like it ? Eh, wasn't it you who picked
up my cap the other day ? I am in your debt ;
here you are.' He handed Jendrek a twenty-kopek
piece. ' Is that your father ? Citizen, if you want
to be friends with me, do not bow so low, and cover
your head. It is time that these survivals of
servitude should be forgotten ; they can only do us
both harm. Cover yourself, I beg you.'

Slimak tried to do as he was told, but his hand
refused obedience.

' I feel awkward, sir, standing before you with
my cap on,' he said.

' Oh, hang hereditary social differences ! ' ex-
claimed the young man, snatching the cap from
Slimak's hands and putting it on his head.

THE OUTPOST 49

' Hang it all ! ' thought the peasant, unable to
follow the democrat's intentions.

' What are you going to the manor for ? ' asked .
the latter. ' Have you come on business with my
brother-in-law ? '

* We want to beg a favour of the squire ' — Slimak
refrained with difficulty from bowing again — ' that
he should let us rent the field close to my property.'

1 What for ? '

' We've bought a new cow.'

* How much cattle have you ? '

* The Lord Jesus possesses five tails in my
gospodarstwo, two horses and three cows, not
counting the pigs.'

' And have you much land ? '

' I wish to God I had, but I have only ten acres,
and those are growing more sterile every year.'

' That 's because you don't understand agricul-
ture. Ten acres is a large property ; in other
countries several families live comfortably on that ;
here it is not enough for one. But what can you
expect if you sow nothing but rye ? '

1 What else should I sow, sir ? Wheat doesn't
do very well.'

' Vegetables, my friend, that does the trick !
The market gardeners near Warsaw pay thirty ©r
forty roubles an acre rent and do excellently
wefl.'

jSlimak hung his head. He was much perturbed,
for he had arrived at the conclusion that the squire
would not let him have the field, because he had so
.much land already, or that he would ask him
thirty or forty roubles' rent. What other .object
could the young gentleman possibly have for saying
such strange things ?

50 THE OUTPOST

They were approaching the entrance to the
garden.

' I see my sister is in the garden ; my brother-in-
'law is sure to be about too. I will go and tell him
of your business.'

Slimak bowed low, but inwardly he thought :
' May the pestilence take him ! He is impertinent
to my wife, stirs up the boy, and puts my cap on my
head ; but he wants to squeeze money out of me, all
the same. I knew he would bring me bad luck/

Sounds of an American organ which the squire
was playing came from the house.

' Daddy, daddy, they are playing ! ' cried
Stasiek in great excitement ; he was flushed, and
trembled with emotion, even Jendrek was affected.
Slimak took off his cap and said a prayer for
deliverance from the evil spell of the young gentle-
man.

When the organ stopped, they watched this
same young gentleman talking to his sister in the
garden.

* Look at the lady, dad,' said Jendrek; ' she is
just like a horsefly, yellow with black spots, and
thin in the waist and fat at the end.'

The democrat was putting Slimak's case before
his sister, and complained of the signs of servility
with which he met at every turn. He said they
spoilt his temper.

' But what can I do ? ' said the lady.

' Go up to them and give them courage.'

* I like that ! ' she said. ' I arranged a treat for
our farm-labourers' children to encourage them,
and next day they plundered my peach trees.
Go to them ? I've done that too. I once went into
a cottage where a child was ill, and my clothes

THE OUTPOST 51

smelt so strongly that I had to give them to my
maid. No, thank you ! '

' All the same, I beg you to do something for
these people.'

Their conversation had been in French while
they were approaching the railings.

' Oh, it 's Slimak.' The lady raised her. glasses.
' Well, my good man, my brother wants me to do
something for you. Have you got a daughter ? '

' I haven't, my lady,' said Slimak, kissing the
hem of her dress.

' That 's a pity, I might have taught her to do
beadwork. Perhaps I could teach the boys to read ? '

' They are wanted at home, my lady; the elder
one is useful already, and the younger one looks
after the pigs in the fields.'

' Do something for them yourself,' she said to
her brother in French.

' What are they plotting against me ? ' thought
Slimak.

The squire now came out and joined the group.
Slimak began bowing again, Stasiek's eyes filled
with tears, even Jendrek lost his self-assurance.
The conversation reverted into French, and the
democrat warmly supported Slimak's cause.

' All right, I'll let him have the field,' said the
squire ; ' then there will be an end to the trespassing ;
besides, he is the most honest man in the village.'

When Slimak's suspense had become so acute
that he had thoughts of returning home without
having settled the business, the squire said :

' So you want me to let you have the field by the
river ? '

' If you will be so kind, sir.'

1 And if you will kindly take off three roubles/

52 THE OUTPOST

Jendrek added quickly. Slimak's blood ran cold ;
the squire exchanged glances with his wife.

' What does that mean ? ' he asked. ' From what
am I to take off three roubles ? '

Involuntarily Slimak's hand reached for his belt,
but he recollected himself ; he made up his mind in
despair to tell the truth.

' If you please, sir, don't take any notice of that
puppy ; my wife has been at me for not bargaining
well, and she told me to get you to take three
roubles off the rent, and now this young scoundrel
pmts me to shame.'

' Mother told me to look after you.'

Slimak became absolutely tongue-tied, and the
party on the other side of the railing were convulsed
with laughter.

1 Look,' said the squire in French, ' that is the
peasant all over. He won't allow you to speak a
word to his wife, but he can't do anything without
her, and doesn't understand any business what-
soever without her explanations.'

' Lovely ! ' laughed his wife, ' now, if you did as
I tell you, we should have left this dull place long
ago and gone to Warsaw.'

' Don't make the peasant out to be an idiot/
remonstrated his brother-in-law.

' No need for me to do that ; he is an idiot. Our
peasants are all muscle and stomach ; they leave
reason and energy to their wives. Slimak is one
of the most intelligent, yet I will bet you any-
thing that I can immediately give you a proof of
his being a donkey. Josef,' he said, turning to
Slimak, ' your wife told you to drive a good
bargain ? '

' Certainly, sir, what is true is true.'

THE OUTPOST 53

' Do you know what Lukasiak pays me yearly ? '

' They say ten roubles.'

' Then you ought to pay twenty roubles for the
two acres.'

' If you will be lenient, sir,' began Slimak.

' . . . and let me off three roubles,' completed
the squire. Slimak looked confused.

' Very good, I will let you off three roubles ; you
shall pay me seventeen roubles yearly. Are you
satisfied ? '

Slimak bowed to the ground and thought:
' What is he up to ? He is not bargaining I '

' Now, Slimak,' continued the squire, ' I will
make you another proposal. Do you know what
Gryb paid me for the two acres he bought ? '

' Seventy roubles.'

' Just so, and he paid for the surveyor and the
lawyer. I will sell you those two acres for sixty
roubles and let you off all expenses, so you would
gain a clear twenty roubles against Gryb's bargain.
But I make one condition, you must decide at once
and without consulting your wife ; to-morrow my
conditions wouldn't be the same.'

Slimak's eyes blazed ; he fancied he saw quite
elearly now that there was a conspiracy against him.

* That 's not a handsome thing to offer, sir,'
he said, with a forced smile ; ' you yourself consult
with the lady and the young gentleman.'

' There you are ! Isn't he a finished idiot ? '

His brother-in-law tapped Slimak on the shoul-
der. ' Agree to it, my friend ; you'll have the
best of the bargain. Of course he agrees',' he said,
turning to the squire.

' Well, Josef, will you buy it ? Do you agree to
my conditions ? '

54 THE OUTPOST

' I'm not such a fool,' thought Slimak, and
aloud : ' It wouldn't be fair to buy it without my
wife.'

' Very well, I'll let it to you. Give me your
earnest-money and come for the receipt to-morrow.
There you have the peasant, my democrat ! '

Slimak paid the ten roubles and glared at the
retreating party.

' Ah ! you'd like to cheat a peasant, but he has
got too much sense ! It 's true, then, what
Grochowski said about the land-distribution.
Sixty roubles for a field worth seventy, indeed ! '

All the same he could not quite get rid of the
thought that it might have been a straightforward
offer. He felt hot all over and wanted to shout
or run after the squire. At that moment the young
man hastily turned back.

' Buy that field,' he said, quite out of breath ;
1 my brother-in-law would still consent if you
asked him.'

In an instant Slimak's distrust returned.

' No, sir ; it wouldn't be fair.'

' Cattle ! ' murmured the democrat, and turned
his back. The bargain had disappeared.

' Let's go home, boys,' and under his breath :
' Damn the aristocracy ! ' When they were nearing
their home, the boys ran on ahead, for they were
hungry.

' What is this Jendrek tells me ? They wanted to
sell you the land for sixty roubles ? '

' That is so,' he replied, rather frightened; ' they
are afraid of the new land-distributions. They
are clever too ! They knew all about my business
beforehand, and the squire had set his brother-in-
law on to me.'

THE OUTPOST 55

' What ! that fellow who spoke to me by the

river

' That same fool. He gave Jendrek twenty
kopeks and put my cap on my head, and he told me
ten acres was a fortune.'

' A fortune ? His brother-in-law has a thousand
and says he hasn't enough ! You did quite right not
to buy the field ; there is something shady about
that business.'

But his wife's satisfaction did not completely
reassure Slimak ; he was wretchedly in doubt.
His dinner gave him no pleasure, and he strolled
about the house without knowing what to do.
When his irritation had reached its climax, a
happy thought struck him.

' Come here, Jendrek,' he said, unbuckling his
belt.

' Oh, daddy, don't,' wailed the boy, although he
had been prepared for the last two hours.

' You won't escape it this time ; lie down on
the bench. You've been laughing at the young
gentleman and even making fun of the squire.'

Stasiek, in tears, embraced his father's knees,
Magda ran out of the room, Jendrek howled.

' I tell you, lie down ! I'll teach you to run about
with that scoundrel of a Jasiek ! '

At that moment Slimakowa tapped at the
window. ' Josef, come quick, something has
happened to the new cow, she 's staggering.'

Slimak let go of Jendrek and ran to the cowshed.
The three cows were standing quietly chewing the
cud.

' It has passed off,' said the woman ; ' but I tell
you a minute ago she was staggering worse than
you did yesterday.'

56 THE OUTPOST

He examined the cow carefully, but could find
nothing wrong with her.

Jendrek had meanwhile slipped away, his
father's temper had cooled, and the matter ended
as usual on these occasions.

CHAPTER V

IT was the height of summer. The squire and
his wife had gone away, and the villagers had
forgotten all about them. New wool had begun to
grow on the shorn sheep.

The sun was so hot that the clouds fled from the
sky into the woods, and the ground protected
itself with what it could find ; with dust on the
highroads, grass in the meadows, and heavy crops
in the fields.

But human beings had to toil their hardest at
this time. At the manor they were cutting clover
and hoeing turnips ; in the cottages the women
were piling up the potatoes, while the old women
were gathering mallows for cooling drinks and
lime-blossoms against the ague. The priest spent
all his days tracking and taking swarms of bees ;
Josel, the innkeeper, was making vinegar. The
woods resounded with the voices of children picking
berries.

The corn was getting ripe, and Slimak began to
cut the rye the day after the Assumption of the
Blessed Virgin Mary. He was in a hurry to get
the work done in two or three days, lest the corn
should drop out in the great heat, and also because
he wanted to help with the harvesting ,at the
manor.

THE OUTPOST 57

Usually he, Maciek, and Jendrek worked
together, alternately cutting and binding the
sheaves. Slimakowa and Magda helped in the
early morning and in the afternoon.

On the first day, while the five were working
together, and had reached the top of the hill,
Magda noticed some men showing against the dark
background of the wood, and drew Slimakowa's
attention to them. They all stopped work and
looked.

' They must be peasants,5 Maciek said ; 'they are
wearing white smocks.'

' They do not walk like peasants,' said Slima-
kowa.

' But they are wearing boots up to their knees,'
said Slimak.

' Look ! they are carrying poles^ Jendrek cried ;
' and they are dragging a rope after them.'

' Ah, they must be surveyors. What can they
be after ? ' reflected Slimak.

' Surely, they are taking a fresh survey ; now,
Josef, aren't you glad you did not buy that land ? '
asked his wife.

They took up their work again, but did not get
on very fast, for they could not resist throwing
sidelong glances at the approaching men. It was
now quite plain that they were not peasants, for
they wore white coats and had black ribbons on
their hats. Slimak's attention became so absorbed
that he lagged behind, in the place which Magda
usually occupied, instead of being at the head of
the party. At last he cried :

' Jendrek, stop cutting ; run and find out what
they are doing, and if they are really measuring
for a new land-distribution.'

58 THE OUTPOST

Jendrek was off in a moment, and had soon
reached the men. He forgot to come back. The
little party watched him talk to the men for a few
moments, and then becoming busy with the
poles.

* I say ! } cried Slimakowa, * he is quite one of
the party ! Just look, how he is running along
with the line, as if he had never done anything else
in his life. He has never seen a book except in the
Jew's shop window, and yet he can run better than
any of them. I wish I had told him to put on his
boots ; they will never take him for the son of
a gospodarz.'

She watched Jendrek with great pride until the
party disappeared behind the line of the hill.

' Something will come of this,' said Slimak,
' either good or bad.'

' Why should it be bad ? ' asked his wife ; ' they
may add to our land ; what do you think, Maciek ? '

The farm labourer looked embarrassed when he
was asked for his opinion, and pondered until the
perspiration flowed from his head.

' Why should it be good ? ' he said at last.
1 When I was working for the squire at Krzeszowie,
and he went bankrupt, just such men as these
came and measured the land, and soon afterwards
we had to pay a new tax. No good ever comes of
anything new.'

Jendrek returned towards sunset, quite out of
breath. He called out to his mother that the
gentlemen wanted some milk, and had given him
twenty kopeks.

' Give them to your mother at once,' said Slimak ;
' they are not for you, but for the milk.'

Jendrek was almost in tears. ' Why should I give

THE OUTPOST 59

up my money ? They say they will pay for every-
thing they have, and even want to buy butter and
fowls.'

' Are they traders ? '

' Oh no, they are great gentlemen, and live in
a tent and keep a cook.'

' Gipsies, I dare say ! '

Slimakowa had run off at top speed, and now the
men appeared, perspiring, sunburnt, and dusty ;
nevertheless, they impressed Slimak and Maciek so
much with their grand manner that they took off
their caps.

1 Which of you is the gospodarz ? '

' I am.'

* How long have you lived here ? '
' From my childhood.'

* And have you ever seen the river in flood ? '

* I should think I had ! '

' Do you remember how high the water rises ? '

* Sometimes it overflows on to that meadow
deep enough to drown a man.'

' Are you quite sure of that ? '

' Everybody knows that. Those gaps in the hill
have been scooped out by the water.'

' The bridge will have to be sixty feet high.'

' Certainly,' said the elder of the two men. ' Can
you let us have some milk, gospodarz ? '

' My wife is getting it ready, if it pleases the
gentlemen to come.'

The whole party turned towards the cottage,
for the drinking of milk by such distinguished
gentlemen was an important event ; it was decided
to stop harvesting for the day.

Chairs and the cherrywood table had been placed
in front of the cottage. A rye loaf, butter, white

y
h

60 THE OUTPOST

cheese with caraway seeds, and a bowl of butter-
milk were in readiness.

' Well,' said the men, looking at each other in
surprise, * a nobleman could not have received us
better.'

They ate heartily, praised everything, and finally
asked Slimakowa what they owed her.

' May it be to the gentlemen's health ! '

' But we cannot fleece you like this, gospodyni.'

* We don't take money for hospitality. Besides,
ou have already given my boy as much as if he
ad been harvesting a whole day.'

4 There ! ' whispered the younger man to the
elder, ' isn't that like Polish peasants ? '

To Slimak they said : * After such a reception
we will promise to build the station quite near
to you.'

* I don't know what you mean ? '

* We are going to build a railway.'
Slimak Scratched his head.

* What makes you so doubtful ? ' asked the men.
' I'm thinking that this will turn out badly for

as,' Slimak replied ; ' I shan't earn anything by
driving.'

The men laughed. ' Don't be afraid, my friend,
it will be a very good thing for everybody, especially
for you, as you will be near the station. And first
of all you will sell us your produce and drive us.
Let us begin at once, what do vou want for your
fowls ? '

' I leave it to you, sir.*

* Twenty-five kopeks, then.'

Slimakowa looked at her husband. This was
double the amount they had usually taken. ' You
can have them, sir,' she cried.

THE OUTPOST 61

' That scoundrel of a Jew charged us fifty,'
murmured the younger man.

They agreed to buy butter, cheese, crayfish,
cucumber, and bread ; the younger man expressing
surprise at the cheapness of everything, and the
elder boasting that he always knew how to drive
a good bargain. When they left, thev paid Slima-
kowa sixteen paper roubles and half a silver
rouble, asking her if she was sure that she was not
cheating herself.

' God forbid,' she replied. * I wish I could sell
every day at that price.'

' You will, when we have built the railway.'

* May God bless you ! ' She made the sign of
the cross over them, the farm labourer knelt down,
and Slimak took off his cap. They all accompanied
their guests as far as the ravines.

When they returned, Slimak set everyone to
work in feverish haste.

' Jagna, get the butter ready ; Maciek and
Jendrek, go to the river for the crayfish ; Magda,
take three score of the finest cucumbers, and
throw in an extra ten. Jesus Mary ! Have we
ever done business like this ! You will have to
buy yourself a new silkker chief, and a new shirt
for Jendrek.'

' Our luck has come,' said Slimakowa, c and
I must certainly buy a silkkerchief, or else no one
in the village will believe that we have made so
much money.'

* I don't quite like it that the new carriages will
go without horses,' said Slimak ; ' but that can't
be helped.'

When they took their produce to the engineers'
encampment, they received fresh orders, for there

62 THE OUTPOST

were more than a dozen men, who made him their
general purveyor. Slimak went round to the
neighbouring cottages and bought what he needed,
making a penny profit on every penny he spent,
while his customers praised the cheapness of the
produce. After a week the party moved further
off, and Slimak found himself in possession of
twenty-five roubles that seemed to have fallen
from the sky, not counting what he had earned for
the hire of his horses and cart, and payment for
the days of labour he had lost. But somehow the
money made him feel ashamed.

' Do you know, Jagna,' he said, ' perhaps we
ought to go after the gentlemen and give them
back their money.'

' Oh nonsense ! ' cried the woman, ' trading is
always like that. What did the Jew charge for the
chickens ? just double your price.'

' But it is the Jew's trade, and besides, he isn't
a Christian.'

* Therefore he makes the greater profits. Come,
Josef, the gentlemen did not pay for the things
only, but for the trouble you took.'

This, and the thought that everybody who came
from Warsaw obviously had much money to spend,
reassured the peasant.

As he and the rest of the family were so much
occupied with their new duties, all the harvesting
fell to Maciek's share. He had to go to the hill
from early dawn till late at night, and cut, bind,
and shock the sheaves single-handed. But in spite
of his industry the work took longer than usual,
and Slimak hired old Sobieska to help him. She
came at six o'clock, armed with a bottle of
' remedy ' for a wound in the leg, did the work of

THE OUTPOST 63

two while she sang songs which made even Maciek
blush, until the afternoon, and then took her
' remedy '. The cure then pulled her down so
much that the scythe fell from her hand.

* Hey, gospodarz ! ' she would shout. ' You are
raking in the money and buying your wife silk
handkerchiefs, but the poor farm labourers have
to creep on all fours. It 's " Cut the corn, Sobieska
and Maciek, and I will brag about like a gentle-
man I " You will see, he will soon call himself
"Pan Slimaczinski." x He is the devil's own son,
for ever and ever. Amen.s

She would fall into a furrow and sleep until sun-
down, though she was paid for a full day's work.
As she had a sharp tongue, Slimak had no wish
to offend her. When he haggled about the money,
she would kiss his hand and say : ' Why should you
fall out with me, sir ? Sell one chicken more and
you'll be all right.'

* Cheek always pays ! ' thought Maciek.

On the following Sunday, when everyone was
ready to go to church, Maciek sat down and sighed
heavily.

' Why, Maciek, aren't you going to church ? '
asked Slimak, seeing that something was amiss.

* How can I go to church ? You would be
ashamed of me.'

' What 's the matter with you ? '

c Nothing is the matter with me, but my feet
keep coming through my boots.'

1 That's your own fault, why didn't you speak
before ? Your wages are due, and I will give you
six roubles.'

Maciek embraced his feet. . . .

1 The ending ski denotes nobility.

64 THE OUTPOST

' But mind you buy the boots, and don't drink
away the money.'

They all started ; Slimak walked with his wife,
Magda with the boys, and Maciek by himself at
a little distance. He dreamt that Slimak would
become a gentleman when the railway was finished,
and that he, Maciek, would then wait at table,
and perhaps get married. Then he crossed him-
self for having such reckless ideas. How could
a poor fellow like him think of marrying ? Who
would have him ? Probably not even Zoska,
although she was wrong in .the head and had
a child.

This was a memorable Sunday for Slimak and
his wife. She had bought a' silkkerchief at a
stall, given twenty kopeks to the beggars, and sat
down in the front pew, where Grybina and
Lukasiakowa had at once made room for her. As
for Slimak, everyone had something to say to him.
The publican reproached him for spoiling the prices
for the Jews, the organist reminded him that it
would be well to pay for an extra Mass for the
souls of the departed, even the policeman saluted
him, and the priest urged him to keep bees : ' You
might come round to the Vicarage, now that you
have money and spare time, and perhaps buy a few
hives. It does no harm to remember God in one's
prosperity and keep bees and give wax to the
Church.'

Gryb came up with an unpleasant smile.
' Surely, Slimak, you will treat everybody all round
to-day, since you've been so successful ? '

' You don't treat the village when you have
made a good bargain, neither shall I,' Slimak
snubbed him.

THE OUTPOST 65

* That 's not surprising, since I don't make
as much profit on a cow as you make on a
chicken.'

' All the same, you're richer than other people.'
' There you're right,' Wisniewski supported
Slimak, asking him for the loan of a couple of
roubles at the same time. But when Slimak re-
fused, he complained of his arrogance.

Maciek did not get much comfort out of the
money given him for boots. He stood humbly at
the back of the church, so that the Lord should
not see his torn sukmana. Then the beggars re-
minded him that he never gave them anything.
He went to the public-house to get change.

* How about my money, Pan Maciek ? ' said
the publican.

* What money ? '

' Have you forgotten ? You owe me two roubles
since Christmas.'

Maciek swore at him. ' Everybody knows that
one can only get a drink from you for cash.'

' That 's true on the whole. But when you were
tipsy at Christmas, you embraced and kissed me
so many times, I couldn't help myself and gave
you credit.'

' Have you got witnesses ? ' Maciek said sharply.
' I tell you, old Jew, you won't take me in.'

The publican reflected for a moment.

' 1 have no witnesses,' he said, ' therefore I will
never mention the matter to you again. Since
you swear to me here in the presence of other

rople, that you did not kiss me and beg for credit,
make you a present of your debt, but it 's a
shame,' the publican added, spitting, ' that a man,
working for such a respectable gospodarz as Slimak,

230

66 THE OUTPOST

should cheat a poor Jew. Don't ever set foot in
my inn again ! '

The labourer hesitated. Did he really owe that
money ?

' Well,' he said, * since you say I owe you the
money, I will give it you. But take care God does
not punish you if you are wronging me.' In his
heart, however, he doubted whether God would
ever punish any one on account of such a low
creature as he was.

He was just leaving the inn sadly, when a band
of Galician harvesters came in, They sat down at
the table, discussing the profits that would be
made from the building of the new railway.

Maciek went up to them, and seeing that their
appearance was not much less ragged than his own,
he asked if it was true that there were railroads l
in the world ? ' No one,' he said, ' would have iron
enough to cover roads, not even the government.'

The labourers laughed, but one, a huge fellow
with a soldier's cap, said : * What is there to laugh
at ? Of course a clodhopper does not know what
a railway is. Sit down, brother, and I'll tell you
all about it, but let 's have a bottle of vodka.'

Before Maciek had decided, the publican had
brought the vodka.

* Why shouldn't he have vodka ? ' he said, * he
is a good-natured fellow, he has stood treat before.'

What happened afterwards, Maciek did not
clearly remember. He thought that some one told
him how fast an engine goes, and that some one
else shouted, he ought to buy boots. Later on he
was seized by his arms and legs and carried to the
stable. One thing was certain, he returned without
1 The Polish word for ' railway ' is 'iron road '.

THE OUTPOST 67

a penny. Slimakowa would not look at him; and
Slimak said : ' You are hopeless, Maciek, you'll
never get on, for the devil always leads you into
bad company.'

So it happened that Maciek went without new
boots, but a few weeks later he acquired a
possession he had never dreamt of.

It was a rainy September evening ; the more
the day declined*, the heavier became the layers of
clouds. Lower and lower they descended, torn and
gloomy. Forest, hill, and valley, even the fence
dissolved gradually into the grey veil. The heavy,
persistent rain penetrated everything ; the ground
was full of it, soaked through like kneaded dough ;
the road was full of it, running with yellow sti earns;
the yard, where it stood in large puddles, was
full of it. Roofs and walls were dripping, the
animals' skins and even human souls were satu-
rated with it.

Everybody in the gospodarstwo was thinking
vaguely of supper, but no one was in the mood for it.
The gospodarz yawned, the gospodyni was cross,
the boys were sleepy, Magda did even less than
usual. They looked at the fire, where the potatoes
were slowly boiling, at the door, to watch Maciek
come in, or at the window, where the raindrops
splashed, falling from the higher, the lower, and
the lowest clouds, from the thatch, from the fading
leaves of the trees, and from the window frames.
When all these splashes mingled into one, they
sounded like approaching footfalls. Then the
cottage door creaked. ' Maciek/ muttered the
gospodarz. But Maciek did not appear.

A hand was groping along the passage wall.
* What 's the matter with him, has he gone

68 THE OUTPOST

blind ? ' impatiently exclaimed the gospodyni, and
opened the door.

Something which was hot Maciek was standing
in the passage, a shapeless figure, not tall, but
bulky. • It was wrapped in a soaking wet shawl.
Slimakowa stepped back for a moment, but when
the firelight fell into the passage, she discerned
a human face in the opening of the shawl, copper-
coloured, with a broad nose and slanting eyes that
were hardly visible under the swollen eyelids.

' The Lord be praised,' said a hoarse voice.

' You, Zoska ? ' asked the astonished gospodvni.

' It is I.'

* Come in quickly, you are letting all the damp
into the room.'

The new-comer stepped forward, but stood still,
irresolutely. She held a child in her arms whose
face was as white as chalk, with blue lips ; she.
drew out one of its arms ; it looked like a stick.

* What are you doing out in weather like this ? '
asked Slimak.

' I'm going after a place.' She looked round,
and decided to crouch down on the floor, near the
wall. ' They say in the village that you have
a lot of money now ; I thought you might want
a girl.'

' We don't want a girl, there is not even enough
for Magda to do. Why are you out of a place ? '

* I've been harvesting in the summer, but now
no one will take me in with the child. If I were
alone I could get along.'

Maciek came in, and not being aware of Zoska's
presence, started on seeing a crouching form on
the floor.

' What do you want ? ' he asked.

THE OUTPOST

69

' I thought Slimak might take me on, but he
doesn't want me with the child.'

1 Oh Lord ! ' sighed the man, moved by the
sight of poverty greater than his own.

e Why. Maciek, that sounds as if you had a bad
conscience,' said the gospodyni disagreeably.

* It makes one feel bad, to see such wretched-
ness,' he murmured.

' The man whose fault ifc is would feel it most ! '

' It isn't my fault, but I'm sorry for them all
the same.'

' Why don't you take the child, then, if you are
so sorry ? ' sneered Slimakowa, ' you'll give him
the child, Zoska, won't you ? Is it a boy ? '

' A girl,' whispered Zoska, with her eyes fixed on
Maciek, ' she is two years old ... yes, he can have
her, if he likes.'

' She'd be a deal of trouble to me,' muttered the
labourer, ' all the same, it 's a pity.'

* Take her,' repeated Zoska, ' Slimak is rich,
you are rich. . . .'

' Oh yes, Maciek is rich,' laughed Slimakowa,
' he drinks through six roubles in one Sunday.'

' If you can drink through six roubles, you can
take her,' Zoska cried vehemently, pulling the
child out of the shawl and laying it on the floor.
It looked frightened, but did not utter a sound.

' Shut up, Jagna, and don't talk nonsense,',
said Slimak. Zoska stood up and stretched herself.

' Now I shall be easy for once,' she said, * I've
often thought I'd like to throw her away into
a ditch, but you may as well have her. Mind you
look after her properly ! If I come back and don't
find her, I'll scratch out your eyes.'

' You are crazy,' said Slimak, ' cross yourself.'

70 THE OUTPOST

' I won't cross myself, I'll go away. . . .'

* Don't be a fool, and sit down to supper,' angrily
cried the gospodyni. She took the saucepan ofi
so impetuously, that the hot ashes flew all over
the stove, and one touched Zoska's bare feet.

* Fire ! . . . fire ! ' she shouted, and escaped from
the room, ' the cottage is on fire, everything is on
fire!'

She staggered out like a drunken person, and
they could hear her voice farther and farther o fl,
shouting ' Fire ! ' until the rain drowned it.

* Eun, Maciek, and bring her back,' cried Slima-
kowa. But Maciek did not stir.

' You can't send a man after a mad woman on
a night like this,' said Slimak.

' Well, what am I to do with this dog's child ?
Do you think I shall feed her ? '

' I dare say you won't throw her over the fence.
You needn't worry, Zoska will come back for her.'

' I don't want her here for the night.'

1 Then what are you going to do with her ? '
said Slimak, getting angry.

' I'll take her to the stable,' Maciek said in a low
voice, lifting the child up awkwardly. He sat
down on the bench with it and rocked it gently on
his knees. There was silence in the room. Pre-
sently Magda, Jendrek, and Stasiek emerged from
.their corner and stood by Maciek, looking at the
little creature.

* She is as thin as a lath,' whispered Magda.

* She doesn't move or look at us,' remarked
Jendrek.

' You must feed her from a rag,' advised Magda,
' 1 will find you a clean one.'

' Sit down to supper,' ordered Slimakowa, but

THE OUTPOST 71

her voice sounded less angry. She looked at the

child, first from a distance, then she bent over it

and touched its drawn yellow skin.

' That bitch of a mother ! ' she murmured,

* Magda, put a little milk in a saucer, and you,

Maciek, sit down to supper.'

1 Let Magda sit down, I'll feed her myself.'

' Feed her ! ' cried Magda, ' he doesn't even

know how to hold her.' She tried to take the

child from him.

* Don't pull her to pieces,' said the gospodyni,
' pour out the milk and let Maciek feed her, if he
is so keen on it.'

The way in which Maciek performed his task
elicited much advice from Magda. ' He has poured
the milk all over her mouth . . . it's running on to
the floor . . . why do you stick the rag into her
nose ? '

Although he felt that he was making a bad
nurse, Maciek would not let the child out of his
hands. He hastily ate a little soup, left the
rest, and went to his night- quarters in the stable,
sheltering the child under his sukmana. When he
entered, one of the horses neighed, and the other
turned his head and sniffed at the child in the
darkness.

* That 's right, greet the new stable-boy who
can't even hold a whip,' laughed Maciek.

The rain continued to fall. When Slimak looked
out later on, the stable door was shut, and he
fancied he could hear Maciek snoring.

He returned into the room.

' Are they all right in there ? ' asked his wife.

* They are asleep,' he replied, and bolted the
door.

72 THE OUTPOST

The cocks had crowed midnight, the dog had
barked his answer and squeezed under the cart
for shelter, everybody was asleep. Then the
stable door creaked, and a shadow stole out,
moved along the walls and disappeared into the
cowshed. It was Maciek. He drew the whim-
pering child from under his sukmana and put its
mouth to the cow's udder.

' Suck, little one,' he whispered, * suck the cow,
because your mother has left you.'

A few moments later smacking sounds were
heard.

And the rain continued to drip . . . drip . . .
drip, monotonously.

CHAPTER VI

THE announcement that the railway was to be
built in the spring caused a great stir in the village.
The strangers who went about buying land from
the peasants were the sole topic of conversation at
the spinning-wheels on winter evenings. One poor
peasant had sold his barren gravel hill, and had
been able to purchase ten acres of the best land
with the proceeds.

The squire and his wife had returned in Decem-
ber, and it was rumoured that they were going to
sell the property. The squire was playing the
American organ all day long, as usual, and only
laughed when the people timidly asked him
whether there was any truth in the report. It was
the lady who had told her maid in the evening
how gay the life in Warsaw would be ; an hour

THE OUTPOST 73

later the bailiff's clerk, who was the maid's sweet-
heart, knew of it ; early the next morning the
clerk repeated it to the bailiff and to the foreman
as a great secret, and by the afternoon all the
employes and labourers were discussing the great
secret. In the evening it had reached the inn, and
then rapidly spread into the cottages and to the
small town.

The power of the little word ' Sale ' was truly
marvellous.

It made the farm labourers careless in their
work and the bailiff give notice at New Year ; it
made the mute hard-working animals grow lean,
the sheaves disappear from the barn and the corn
from the granary ; it made off with the reserve
cart-wheels and harnesses, pulled the padlocks off
the buildings, took planks out of the fences, and
on dark nights it swallowed up now a chicken, now
even a sheep or a small pig, and sent the servants
to the public-house every night.

A great, a sonorous word ! It sounded far and
wide, and from the little town came the trades-
people, presenting their bills. It was written on
the face of every man, in the sad eyes of the
neglected beasts, on all the doors and on the
broken window-panes, plastered up with paper.
There were only two people who pretended not to
hear it, the gentleman who played the American
organ and the lady who dreamt of going to Warsaw.
When the neighbours asked them, he shrugged his
shoulders, and she sighed and said : ' We should
like to sell, it 's dull living in the country, but my
father in Warsaw has not yet had an offer/

Slimak, who often went to work at the manor,
had also heard the rumour, but he did not believe
D3

74 THE OUTPOST

it. When he met the squire he would look at him
and think : ' He can't help being as he is, but if
such a misfortune should befall him, I should be
grieved for him. They have been settled at the
manor from father to son ; half the churchyard is
full of them, they have all grown up here. Even
a stone would fret if it were moved from such
a place, let alone a man. Surely, he can't be
bankrupt like other noblemen ? It 's well known
that he has money.'

The peasant judged his squire by himself. He
did not know what it meant to have a young wife
who was bored in the country.

While Slimak put his trust in the squire's un-
ruffled manner, cogitations were going on at the
inn under the guidance of Josel, the publican.

One morning, half-way through January, old
Sobieska burst into the cottage. Although the
winter sun had not yet begun to look round the
world, the old woman was flushed, and her eyes
looked bloodshot. Her lean chest was insufficiently
covered by a sheepskin as old as herself and a torn
chemise.

' Here ! . . . give me some vodka and I'll give
you a little bit of news,' she called out. Slimak
was just going off to thresh, but he sat down again
and asked his wife to bring the vodka, for he knew
that the old woman usually knew what she was
talking about.

She drank a large glassful, stamped her foot,
gurgled ' Oo-ah ! ', wiped her mouth and said :
' I say ! the squire is going to sell everything.'

The thought of his field crossed Slimak's mind
and made his blood run cold, but he answered
calmly : ' Gossip ! '

THE OUTPOST 75

' Gossip ? ' the old woman hiccoughed, ' I tell
you, it 's gospel truth, and I'll tell you more : the
richer gospodarze are settling with Josel and Gryb
to buy the whole estate and the whole village from
the squire, so help me God ! '

' How can they settle that without me ? '

' Because they want to keep you out. They say
you will be better off as it is, because you will be
nearer to the station, and that you have already
made a lot of money by spoiling other people's
business.'

She drained another glass and would have said
more, but was suddenly overcome, and had to be
carried out of the room by Slimak.

He and his wife consulted for the rest of the day
what would be the best thing to do under the
circumstances. Towards evening he put on his
new sukmana lined with sheepskin and went to
the inn.

Gryb and Lukasiak were sitting at the table.
By the light of the two tallow candles they looked
like two huge boundary-stones in their grey
clothes. Josel stood behind the bar in a dirty
jersey with black stripes. He had a sharp nose,
pointed beard, pointed curls, and wore a peaked
cap ; there was something pointed also in his
look.

The Lord be praised,' said Slimak.
In Eternity,' Josel answered indifferently.
What are the gospodarze drinking ? '
Tea,' the innkeeper replied.
Then I will have tea too, but let it be as black
as pitch, and with plenty of arrac.'

' Have you come to drink tea with us ? ' Josel
taunted him.

76 THE OUTPOST

c No,' said Slimak, slowly sitting down, ' I've
come to find out. . . .'

' What old Sobieska meant,' finished the inn-
keeper in an undertone.

' How about this business ? is it true that you
are buying land from the squire ? ' asked Slimak.

The two gospodarze exchanged glances with
Josel, who smiled. After a pause Lukasiak re-
plied :

' Oh, we are talking of it for want of something
better to do, but who would have the money for
such a big undertaking ? '

' You two between you could buy it ! '

1 Perhaps we may, but it would be for ourselves
and those living in the village.'

' What about me ? '

' You don't take us into your confidence about
your business affairs, so mind you keep out of
ours.'

' It 's not only your affair, but concerns the
whole village.'

' No, it 's nobody's but mine,' snapped Gryb.

' It 's mine just as much.'

' That is not so ! ' Gryb struck the table with
his fist : if I don't like a man, he shan't buy, and
there 's an end of it.'

The publican smiled. Seeing that Slimak was
getting pale with anger, Lukasiak took Gryb by
the arm.

' Let us go home, neighbour,' he said. ' What is
the good of talking about things that may never
come off ? Come along.'

Gryb looked at Josel and got up.

' So you are going to buy without me ? ' asked
Slimak.

THE OUTPOST 77

' You bought without us last summer.5 They
shook hands with the innkeeper and took no notice"
of Slimak.

Josel looked after them until their footsteps
could no longer be heard, then, still smiling, he
turned to Slimak.

' Do you see now, gospodarz, that it is a bad
thing to take the bread out of a Jew's mouth ?
I have lost fifty roubles through you and you have
made twenty-five, but you have bought a hundred
roubles' worth of trouble, for the whole village is
against you.'

' They really mean to buy the squire's land
without me ? '

4 Why shouldn't they ? What do they care
about your loss if they can gain ? '

' Well . . . well,' muttered the peasant sadly.

' I,' said Josel, ' might perhaps be able to
arrange the affair for you, but what should I gain
by it ? You have never been well disposed
towards me, and you have already done me
harm.'

' So you won't arrange it ? '

' I might, but on my own terms.'

1 What are they ? '

' First of all you will give me back the fifty
roubles. Secondly, you will build a cottage on
your land for my brother-in-law.'

' What f or ? ' '

' He will keep horses and drive people to and
from the station.'

' And what am I to do with my horses ? '

' You have your land.'

The gospodarz got up. ' Aren't you going to
give me any tea ? i

78 THE OUTPOST

' I haven't any in the house.'

' Very well ; I won't pay you fifty roubles,
and I won't build a cottage for your brother-
in-law.'

' Do as you please.' Slimak left the inn, 'banging
the door.

Josel turned his pointed nose and beard in his
direction and smiled.

In the darkness Slimak collided with a labourer
from the manor who carried a sack of corn on his
back ; presently he saw one of the servant girls
hiding a goose under her sheepskin. When she
recognized him she ran behind the fence. But
Josel continued to smile. He smiled, when he paid
the labourer a rouble for the corn, including the
sack ; he smiled, when the girl handed over the
goose and got a bottle of sour beer in return ; he
smiled, when he listened to the gospodarze dis-
cussing the purchase of the land, and he smiled
when he paid old Gryb two roubles per cent., and
took two roubles from young Gryb for every ten
he lent him. His smile no more came off his face
than his dirty jersey came off his back.

The fire was out and the children were asleep
when Slimak returned home.

' Well ? ' asked his wife, while he was undressing
in the dark.

' This is a trick of Josel's. He drives the others
like a team of oxen.'

' They won't let you in ? '

c They won't, but I shall go to the squire about
the field.'

' When are you going ? '

' To-morrow, else it may be too late.'

To-morrow came ; the day after came and

THE OUTPOST 79

went ; a week passed, but Slimak had not yet
done anything. One day he said he must thresh
for a corn dealer, the other day that he had a pain
inside.

As a matter of fact, he neither threshed nor had
a pain inside ; but something held him back
which peasants call being afraid, gentlemen slack-
ness, and scholars inertia.

He ate little, wandered round aimlessly, and
often stood still in the snow-covered field by the
river, struggling with himself. Reason told him
that he ought to go to the manor and settle the
matter, but another power held him fast ' and
whispered : ' Don't hurry, wait another day, it
will all come right somehow.'

' Josef, why don't you go to the squire ? ' his
wife asked day after day.

One evening old Sobieska turned up again.
She was suffering from rheumatism, and required
treatment with a ' thimbleful ' of vodka which
loosened her tongue.

' It was like this,' she began : ' Gryb and
Lukasiak went with Grochowski, all three dressed
as for a Corpus Christi procession. The squire
received them in the bailiff's office, and Gryb
cleared his throat and went for it. " We have
heard, sir, that you are going to sell your family
estate. Every man has a right to sell, and the
other to buy. But it would be a pity to allow the
land which your forefathers possessed, and which
we peasants have cultivated, to fall into the hands
of strangers who have no associations with old
times. Therefore, sir, sell the land to us." I tell
you,' Sobieska continued, ' he talked for an hour,
like the priest in the pulpit ; at last Lukasiak got

80 THE OUTPOST

stiff in the back1, and they all burst out crying.
Then they embraced the squire's feet, and he took
their heads between his hands 2 and . . .'

' Well, and are they buying ? ' Slimak inter-
rupted impatiently.

' Why shouldn't they buy ? Certainly they are
buying. They are not yet quite agreed as to the
price, for the squire wants a hundred roubles an
acre, and the peasants are offering fifty ; but they
cried so much, and talked so long about good
feeling between peasants and landowners that the
gospodarze will add another ten, and the squire
will let them off the rest. Josel has told them to
give that much and no more, and not to be in
a hurry, then they'll be sure to drive a good
bargain. He 's a damned clever Jew ! Since he
has taken the matter in hand, people have flocked
to the inn as if the Holy Mother were workin
miracles there.'

' Is he still setting the others against me ? '

' He is not actually setting them against you,
but he puts in a word now and then that you can
no longer count as a gospodarz, since you have
taken to trading. The others are even more angry
with you than he is ; they can't forget that you
sold chickens at just double the price you bought
them for.'

The result of this news was that Slimak set out for
the manor-house early the next day, and returned
depressed in the afternoon. A large bowl of sauer-
kraut presently made him willing to discourse.

' It was like this : I arrive at the manor, and

1 The peasants would stand bent all the time.

2 A nobleman, in order to show goodwill to his subordi-
nates, slightly presses their heads between his hands.

THE OUTPOST 81

when I look up I see that all the windows of the
large room on the ground floor are wide open.
God forbid ! has some one died ? I think to
myself. I peep in and see Mateus, the footman,
in a white apron with brushes on his feet, skating
up and down like the boys on the ice. " The Lord be
praised, Mateus, what are you doing ? " I say. " In
Eternity, I am polishing the floor," says he ; "we
are going to have a big dance here to-night." " Is
the squire up yet ? " " He is up, but the tailor is with
him; he is trying on a Crakovian costume. My
lady is going to be a gipsy. " "I want him to sell me
that field," I say. Mateus says : " Don't be a fool !
how can the squire think of your field, when he
is amusing himself making up as a Crakovian."
So I go away from the window and stand about
near the kitchen for a bit. They are bustling like
anything, the fire is burning like a forge, and the
butter is hissing. Presently Ignaz, the kitchen
boy, comes out, covered with blood, as if he had
been stuck. " Ignaz, for God's sake, what have you
been doing ? " I ask. " I haven't been doing any-
thing; it's the cook, he's been boxing my ears
with a dead duck." " The Lord be praised it is not
your blood. Tell me where I can find the squire."
"Wait here," he says, "they'll bring in the boar,
and the squire is sure to come and have a look at
it." Ignaz runs off, and I wait and wait, until
the shivers run down my back. But still I wait.'

' Well, and did you see the squire ? ' Slima-
kowa asked impatiently.

{ Of course I saw him.'

' Did you speak to him ? '

' Rather ! '

' What did you settle ? '

82 THE OUTPOST

' Well ... ah ... I told him I wanted to beg
a favour of him about the field, but he said, " Oh,
leave me alone, I have no head for business to-day. " '

' And when will you go again ? '

Slimak held up his hands : ' Perhaps to-morrow,
or the day after, when they have slept off their
dance.'

That same day Maciek drove a sledge to the
forest, taking with him an axe, a bite of food, and
' Silly Zoska's ' daughter. The mother had never
asked after her, and Maciek had mothered the
child ; he fed her, took her to the stable with him
at night and to his work in the day-time.

The child was so weak that it hardly ever uttered
a sound. Every one, especially Sobieska, had
predicted her early death.

' She won't last a week.' . . . ' She'll die to-
morrow.' . . . ' She 's as good as gone already.'

But she had lived through the week and longer,
and even when she had been taken for dead once,
she opened her tired eyes to the world again.
Maciek paid no attention to these prognostications.
'Never fear,' he said, 'nothing will happen to her.'
He continued to feed her in the cowshed after
dark.

' What makes you take trouble about that
wretched child, Maciek ? ' Slimakowa would say ;
' if you talked to her about the Blessed Bible itself
she would take no notice ; she 's dreadfully stupid,
I never saw such a noodle in all my life.'

' She doesn't talk, because she has sense,' said
Maciek ; ' when she begins to talk she will be as
wise as an old man.'

That was because Maciek was in the habit of
talking to her about his work, whatever he might

THE OUTPOST

83

be doing, manuring, threshing, or patching his
clothes.

To-day he was taking her with him to the forest,
tied to the sledge, and wrapt in the remnants of
his old sheepskin and a shawl. Uphill and down-
hill over the hummocks bumped the sledge, until
they arrived on level ground, where the slanting
rays of the sun, endlessly reflected from the snow-
crystals, fell into their eyes. The child began to cry.

Maciek turned her sideways, scolding : ' Now
then, I told you to shut your eyes ! No man, and
if he were the bishop himself, can look at the sun ;
it 's God's lantern. At daybreak the Lord Jesus
takes it into his hand and has a look round his
gospodarstwo. In the winter, when the frost is
hard, he takes a short cut and sleeps longer. But
he makes up for it in the summer, and looks all
over the world till eight o'clock at night. That 's
why one should be astir from daybreak till sunset.
But you may sleep longer, little one, for you aren't
much use yet. Woa ! ' They entered the forest.
' Here we are ! this is the forest, and it belongs to
the squire. Slimak has bought a cartload of wood,
and we must get it home before the roads are too
bad. Steady, lads ! ' They stopped by a square
pile of wood. Maciek untied the child and put her
in a sheltered place, took out a bottle of milk and
put it to her lips. * Drink it and get strong, there
will be some work for you. The logs are heavy,
and you must lift them into the sledge. You don't
want the milk ? Naughty girl ! Call out when you
want it. ... A little child like that makes things
cheerful for a man,' he reflected. ' Formerly there
never was any one to open one's mouth to, now one
can talk all the time. Now watch how the work

84 THE OUTPOST

should be done. Jendrek would pull the logs about,
and get tired in no time and stop. But mind you
take them from the top, carefully, and lift them
into the sledge, one by one like this. Never be in
a hurry, little one, or else the damned wood will
tire you out. It doesn't want to go on to the
sledge, for it has sense, and knows what to expect.
We all prefer our own corner of the world, even
if it is a bad one. But to you and me it 's all the
same, we have no corner of our own ; die here or
die there, it makes no difference.' Now and then
he rested, or tucked the child up more closely.

Meanwhile, the sky had reddened, and a strong
north-west wind sprang up, saturated with
moisture. The forest, held in its winter sleep,
slowly began to move and to talk. The green pine
needles trembled, then the branches and boughs
began to sway and beckon to each other. The
tops, and finally the stems rocked forward and
backward, as if they contemplated starting on
a march. It was as if their eternal fixedness
grieved them, and they were setting out in a
tumultuous crowd to the ends of the world. Some-
times they became motionless near the sledge, as
though they did not wish to betray their secret to
a human being. Then the tramp of countless feet,
the march past of whole columns of the right wing,
could be heard distinctly ; they approached, and
passed at a distance. The left wing followed ; the
snow creaked under their footsteps, they were
already in a line with the sledge. The middle
column, emboldened, began to call in mighty
whispers. Then they halted angrily, stood still in
their places and seemed to roar : * Go away ! go
away, and do not hinder us ! '

THE OUTPOST 85

But Maciek was only a poor labourer, and
though he was afraid of the giants, and would
gladly have made room for them, he could not leave
until he had loaded up his sledge. He did not rest
now or rub his frozen hands ; he worked as fast as
he could, so that the night and the winter storms
should not overtake him.

The sky grew darker and darker with clouds ;
mists rose in the forests and froze into fine crystals
which instantly covered Maciek' s sukmana, the
child's shawl, and the horses' manes with a crack-
ling crust. The logs became so slippery that his
hands could scarcely hold them ; the ground was
like glass. He looked anxiously towards the
setting sun : it was dangerous to return with a heavy
load when the roads were in that condition. He
crossed himself, put the child into the sledge, and
whipped up the horses. Maciek stood in fear of
many things, but most of all he feared the overturn-
ing of a sledge or cart, and being crushed underneath.

When they were out of the wood the track
became worse and worse. The rough-hewn runners
constantly sank into snow-drifts and the sledge
canted over, so that the poor man, trembling with
fear and cold, had to prop it up with all his
strength. If his twisted foot gave way, there was
an end to him and the child.

From time to time the horses stopped dead, and
Maciek ceased shouting. Then a great silence spread
round him, only the distant roar of the forest, the
whistling of the wind, and the whimpering of the
child could be heard.

' Woa ! ' he began again, and the horses tugged
and slipped where they stood, moved on a few
steps, and stopped again.

86 THE OUTPOST

' To Thy protection we flee, Holy Mother of
God ! ' he whispered, took his axe and cut into
the smooth road in front of the horses.

It took him a long time to cover the short
distance to the high road, but when they got there,
the horses refused to go on at all. The hill in front
of them was impassable. He sat down on the
sledge, pondering whether Slimak would come to
his assistance, or leave him to his fate. ' He'll
come for the horses ; don't cry, little one, God
won't forsake us.' While he listened, it seemed to
him as if the whistling of the wind changed into
the sound of bells. Was it his fancy ? But the
bells never ceased ; some were deep-toned and some
high-toned ; voices were intermixed with them.
They approached from behind like a swarm of bees
in the summer.

' What can it be ? ' said Maciek, and stood up.

Small flames shone in the distance. They dis-
appeared among the juniper bushes, and then
flickered up again, now high, now low, coming
nearer and nearer, until a number of objects,
running at full speed, could be seen in the un-
certain light of the flames. The tumult of voices
increased ; Maciek heard the clattering of hoofs,
the cracking of whips.

' Heh ! stop . . . there 's a hill there ! >

' Look out ! don't be crazy ! '

' Stop the sledge, I shall get out ! '

' No, go on ! '

* Jesus Mary ! '

' Have the musicians been spilt yet ? '

' Not yet, but they will be.'

' Oh ... la la !'

Maciek now understood that this was a sleigh

THE OUTPOST

87

race. The teams of two- and four-horsed sleighs
approached at a gallop, accompanied by riders on
horseback carrying torches. In the thick mist it
looked as if the procession appeared out of an
abyss through a circular gate of fire. They bore
straight down upon the spot where Maciek and
his sledge had come to a standstill. Suddenly the
first one stopped.

' Hey . . . what 's that ? '

' Something is in the wav.'

' What is it ? '

' A peasant with a cartload of wood.'

* Out of the way, dog. Throw him into the
ditch ! '

' Shut up ! We'd better move him on.'

' That we will ! We are going to move the
peasant on. Out of your sledges, gentlemen ! '

Before Maciek had recovered from his astonish-
ment, he was surrounded by masked men in rich
costumes with plumed hats, swords, guitars, or
brooms. They seized his sledge and himself, pushed
them to the top of the hill and down the other side
on to level ground.

'Thank God!' thought the dazed man. 'If the
devil hadn't led them this way, I might have been
here till the morning. They are fine fellows ! '

' The ladies are afraid to drive down the hill,'
some one shouted from the distance.

e Then let them get out and walk ! '

' The sledges had better not go down.'

'Why not ? Go on, Antoni !" '

' I don't advise it, sir.'

' Then get off and be hanged ! I'll drive myself ! J

Bells jingled violently, and a one-horse sledge
passed Maciek like a whirlwind. He crossed himself.

88 THE OUTPOST

' Drive on, Andrei ! '

' Stop, Count ! It 's too risky ! '

' Go on ! '

Another sledge flew past.

' Bravo ! Sporting fellow ! '

' Drive on, Jacent ! '

Two sledges were racing each other, a driver
and a mask in each. The mad race had made the
road sufficiently safe for the other empty sledges
to pass with greater caution.

' Now give your arm to the ladies ! A polo-
naise ! Musicians ! '

The outriders with torches posted themselves
along the road, the musicians tuned up, and couple
after couple detached itself from the darkness like
an iridescent apparition. They hovered past to
the melancholy strains of the Oginski polonaise.

Maciek took off his cap, drew the child from
under the sheepskin and stood beside his sledge.

' Now look, you'll never see anything so
beautiful again. Don't be afraid ! '

An armoured and visored man passed.

' Do you see that knight ? Formerly people like
that conquered half the world, now there are none
of them left.5

A grey-bearded senator passed.

* Look at him ! People used to fear his judge-
ment, but there are none like him left ! That one,
as gaudy as a woodpecker, was a great nobleman
once ; he did nothing but drink and dance ; he
could drain a barrel at a bout, and he spent so much
money that he had to sell his family estate, poor
wretch ! There 's a Uhlan ; they used to fight for
Napoleon and conquer all the nations, but there
are no fighters left in the world. There 's a chimney

THE OUTPOST 89

sweep and a peasant . -. . but in reality they are all
gentlemen amusing themselves.'

The procession passed ; fainter and fainter grew
the strains of the Oginski polonaise ; with shouts
and laughter the masks got back into the sleighs,
hoofs clattered and whips cracked.

Maciek started cautiously homeward in the wake
of the jingling sleighs. Distant flames were still
twinkling ahead, and the wind carried faint sounds
of merriment back to him. Then all was silent.

' Are they doing right ? ' he murmured, per-
turbed.

For he recalled the portrait of the grey-headed
senator in the choir of the church ; he had even
prayed to it sometimes. . . . The bald-headed
nobleman was there too, whom the peasants called
' the cursed man ', and the knight in armour who
was lying on his tomb beside the altar of the Holy
Martyr Apollonius. Then he remembered the friar
who walked through the Vistula, and Queen
Jadwiga who had brought salt from Hungary.
And by the side of all these he saw his own old
wise grandfather, Roch Owczarz, who had been
a soldier under Napoleon, and came home without
a penny, and in his old age became sacristan at
the church, and explained all the pictures to the
gospodarze so beautifully that he earned more
money than the organist.

' The Lord rest his soul eternally ! '

And now these noblemen were amusing them-
selves with sacred matters ! What would they do
next ? . . .

Slimak met him when he was about a verst from
the cottage.

' We have been- wondering if you had got stuck

90 THE OUTPOST

on the hill. Thank God you are safe. Did you see
the sleigh race ? '

c Oho ! ' said Maciek.

' I wonder they did not smash you to pieces.'

e Why should they ? They even helped me up
the hill.'

' Dear me ! And they didn't pull you about ? '

' They only pulled my cap over my ears.'

' That is just like them ; either they will smash
you up, or else be kindness itself, it just depends
what temper they're in.'

' But the way they drove down those hills made
one's flesh creep. No sober man would have come
out of it alive.'

Two sledges now overtook them ; there was one
traveller in the first and two in the second.

' Can you tell me where that sleigh party was
driving to ? ' asked the occupant of the first.

' To the squire's.'

' Indeed ! . . . Do you know if Josel, the inn-
keeper, is at home ? '

' I dare say he is, unless he is off on some swindle
or other.'

' Do you know if your squire has sold his estate
yet ? ' asked a guttural voice from the second
sledge.

' You shouldn't ask him such a question, Fritz/
remonstrated his companion.

' Oh ! the devil take the whole business ! '
replied Fritz.

' Aha, here they are again ! ' said Slimak.

' What do all those Old Testament Jews want ? '
asked Maciek.

' There was only one Jew, the others are Germans
from Wolka.'

THE OUTPOST 91

c The gentlefolks never have any peace ; no
sooner do they want to enjoy themselves, then the
Jews drive after them,' said Maciek.

Indeed, the sledges conveying the travellers
were now with difficulty driving towards the
valley, and presently stopped at Josel's inn.

Barrels of burning pitch in front of the manor
house threw a rosy glare over the wintry land-
scape ; distant sounds of music came floating on
the air.

Josel came out and directed the Jew's sledge to
the manor. The Germans got out, and one of them
shouted after the departing Jew : ' You will see
nothing will come of it ; they are amusing them-
selves.'

' Well, and what of that ? '

' A nobleman does not give up a dance for
a business interview.'

' Then he will sell without it.'

' Or put you off/

' I have no time for that.'

The fa9ade of the manor-house glowed as in a
bengal light ; the sleigh-bells were still tinkling
in the yard, where the coachmen were quarrelling
over accommodation for their horses. Crowds of
village people were leaning against the railings to
watch the dancers flit past the windows, and to
catch the strains of the music. Around all this
noise, brightness, and merriment lay the darkness
of the winter night, and from the winter night
emerged slowly the sledge, carrying the silent,
meditating Jew.

His modest conveyance stopped at the gate, and
he dragged himself to the kitchen entrance ; his
whole demeanbur betrayed great mental and

92 THE OUTPOST

physical tiredness. He tried to attract the
attention of the cook, but failed entirely ; the
kitchen-maid also turned her back on him. At
last he got hold of a boy who was hurrying across
to the pantry, seized him by the shoulders, and
pressed a twenty kopek-piece into his hand.

' You shall have another twenty kopeks if you
will bring the footman.'

' Does your honour know Mateus ? ' The boy
scrutinized him sharply.

' I do, bring him here.'

Mateus appeared without delay.

' Here is a rouble for you ; ask your master if
he will see me, and I will double it.' The footman
shook his head.

' The master is sure to refuse.'

* Tell him, it is Pan Hirschgold, on urgent
business from my lady's father. Here is another
rouble, so that you do not forget the name.'

Mateus quickly disappeared, but did not quickly
return. The music stopped, yet he did not return ;
a polka followed, yet he did not return. At last
he appeared : ' The master asks you to come to
the bailiff's office.' He took Pan Hirschgold into
a room where several camp-beds had been made
up for the guests. The Jew took off his expensive
fur, sat down in an armchair by the fire and
meditated.

The polka had been finished, and a vigorous
mazurka began. The tumult and stamping in-
creased from time to time ; commands rang out,
and were followed by a noise which shook the
house from top to bottom. The Jew listened
indifferently, and waited without impatience.

Suddenly there was a great commotion in the

THE OUTPOST 93

passage ; the door was opened impetuously, and
the squire entered.

He was dressed as a Crakovian peasant in a red
coat covered with jingling ornaments, wide, pink-
and-white-striped breeches, a red cap with a pea-
cock's feather, and iron-shod shoes.

' How are you, Pan Hirschgold ? ' he cried
good-humouredly, ' what is this urgent message
from my father-in-law ? '

' Read it, sir/

' What, now ? I'm dancing a mazurka.'

' And I am building a railway.5

The squire bit his lip, and quickly ran his eye
over the letter. The noise of the dancers in-
creased.

' You want to buy my estate ? '

e Yes, and at once, sir.'

' But you see that I am giving a dance.'

' The colonists are waiting to come in, sir. If
you cannot settle with me before midnight, I shall
settle with your neighbour. He gains, and you
lose.'

The squire was becoming feverish.

' My father-in-law recommends you highly . . .
all the same, ... on the spur of the moment. . . .'

' You need only write a word or two.'

The squire dashed his red cap down on the
table. ' Really, Pan Hirschgold, this is unbear-
able ! '

' It 's not my fault ; I should like to oblige you,
but business is pressing.'

There was another hubbub in the passage, and
the Uhlan burst into the room. ' For heaven's
sake, what are you doing, Wladek ? '

* Urgent business.'

94 THE OUTPOST

' But your lady is waiting for you ! '

' Do arrange for some one to take my place ;
I tell you, it 's urgent.'

' I don't know how the lady will take it ! ' cried
the retreating Uhlan.

The powerful bass voice of the leader of the
mazurka rang out : ' Ladies' ronde ! '

' How much will you give me ? ' hastily began
the squire. ' Rather an original situation ! ' he
unexpectedly added, with humour.

' Seventy-five roubles an acre. This is my
highest offer. To-morrow I should only give
sixty-seven.'

1 En avant ! ' from the ball-room.

' Never ! ' cried the squire, ' I should prefer to
sell to the peasants.'

' And get fifty, or at the outside sixty.'

' Or go on managing the estate myself.'

' You are doing that now . . . what is the result ? *
'What do you mean ? ' said the squire irritably,
* it 's excellent soil. . . .'

' I know all about the property,' interrupted the
Jew, ' from the bailiff who left at New Year.'

The squire became angry. ' I can sell to the
colonists myself.'

' They may give sixty-seven, but meanwhile
my lady is dying of boredom.'

4 Chaine to the left ! '

The squire became desperate. ' God, what am
I to do ?'

' Sign the agreement. Your father-in-law ad-
vises you to do so, and tells you that I shall pay
the highest price.'

' Partagez ! '

Again the Uhlan violently burst into the room.

THE OUTPOST . 95

1 Wladek, you really must come ; the Count is
mortally offended, and says he will take his fiancee
away/

' Oh, confound it ! Pan Hirschgold, write the
agreement at once, I will be back directly.'

Unmindful of the gaiety of the dance, the Jew
calmly took an inkpot, pen, and paper out of his
bag, wrote a dozen lines, and sat down, waiting
for the noise to subside.

A quarter of an hour later the squire returned
in the best of spirits.

* Eeady ? ' he asked cheerfully.
' Ready.'

The squire read the paper, signed, and said with
a smile :

' What, do you think, is the value of this agree-
ment ? '

* Perhaps the legal value is not great, but it has
some value for your father-in-law, and he ... well,
he is a rich man ! '

He blew on the signature, folded up the paper,
and asked with a shade of irony : ' Well, and the
Count ? '

' Oh, he is pacified.'

' He will want more pacifying presently, when
his creditors become annoying. I wish you a
pleasant night, sir.'

No sooner had the squire left the room, than
Mateus, the footman, appeared, as if the ground
had produced him. He helped the Jew into his
coat.

1 Did you buy the estate, sir ? '

1 Why shouldn't I ? It 's not the first, nor will
it be the last.'

He gave the footman three roubles. Mateus

96 , THE OUTPOST

bowed to the ground and offered to call his

' Oh no, thank you,' said the Jew, ' I have left
my own sledge in Warsaw, and I am not anxious
to parade this wretched conveyance.'

Nevertheless, Mateus attended him deferentially
into the yard.

In the ballroom polkas, valses, and mazurkas
followed each other endlessly until the pale dawn
appeared, and the cottage fires were lit.

Slimak rose with the winter sun, and whispering
a prayer, walked out of the gate. He looked at the
sky, then towards the manor-house, wondering how
long the merrymaking was going to last.

The sky was blue, the first sun rays were bathing
the snow in rose colour, and the clouds in purple,
Slimak drew a deep breath, and felt that it was
better to be out in the fresh air than indoors,
dancing.

' Making themselves tired without need,' he
thought, ' when they might be sleeping to their
hearts' content ! ' Then he resumed his prayer.
His attention was attracted by voices, and he saw
two men in navy blue overcoats. When they
caught sight of him, one asked at once :

' That is your hill, gospodarz, isn't it ? '

Slimak looked at them in surprise.

' Why do you keep on asking me about my
property ? I told you last summer that the hill
was mine.'

' Then sell it to us,' said the man with the beard.

* Wait, Fritz,' interrupted the older man.

' Oh bother ! are you going to gossip again,
father ? '

' Look here, gospodarz,' said the father, ' we

THE OUTPOST 97

have bought the squire's estate. Now we want this
hill, because we want to build a windmill. . . .'

' Gracious ! ' exclaimed the son disagreeably,
' have you lost your senses, father ? Listen ! we
want that land ! '

' My land ? ' the peasant repeated in amaze-
ment, looking about him, ' my land ? '

He hesitated for a moment, not knowing what
to say. ' What right have you gentlemen to my
land ? '

' We have got money.'

' Money ?...!!... Sell my land for money ?
We have been settled here from father to son ;
we were here at the time of the scourge of serfdom,
and even then we used to call the land " ours ".
My father got it for his own by decree from the
Emperor Alexander II ; the Land Commission
settled all that, and we have the proper documents
with signatures attached. How can you say now
that you want to buy my land ? '

The younger man had turned away indifferently
during Slimak's long speech and whistled, the older
man shook his fist impatiently.

' But we want to buy it ... pay for it ... cash !
Sixty roubles an acre.'

' And I wouldn't sell it for a hundred,' said
Slimak.

' Perhaps we could come to terms, gospodarz.'

The peasant burst out laughing.

' Old man, have you lived so long in this world,
and don't understand that I would not sell my land
on any terms whatever ? '

' You could buy thirty acres the other side of
the Bug with what we should pay you.'

' If land is so cheap the other side of the Bug,

230

98 THE OUTPOST

why don't you buy it yourself instead of coming
here ? ' The son laughed.

' He is no fool, father ; he is telling you what
I have been telling you from morning till night.'

The old man took Slimak's hand.

' Gospodarz,' he said, pressing it, ' let us talk like
Christians and not like heathens. We praise the
same God, why should we not agree ? You see,
I have a son who is an expert miller, and I should
like him to have a windmill on that hill. When he
has a windmill he will grow steady and work and
get married. Then I could be happy in my old age.
That hill is nothing to you.'

' But it 's my land, no one has a right to it.'

' No one has a right to it, but I want to buy it.'

' Well, and I won't seU it ! '

The old man made a wry face, as if he were
ready to cry. He drew the peasant a few steps
aside, and said in a voice trembling with emotion :
' Why are you so hard on me, gospodarz ? You
see, my sons don't hit it off with each other. The
elder is a farmer, and I want to set up the younger
as a miller and hare him near me. I haven't long to
live, I am eighty years old, don't quarrel with me.'

' Can't you buy land elsewhere ? '

' Not very well. We are a whole community
settling together; it would take a long time to
make other arrangements. My son Wilhelm does
not like farming, and unless I buy him a windmill
he will starve or go away from me. I am an old
man, sell me your land ! Listen,' he whispered,
' I will give you seventy-five roubles an acre. God
is my witness, I am offering you more than the land
is worth. .But you will let me have it, won't you ?
You are an honest man and a Christian.'

THE OUTPOST 99

Slimak looked with astonishment and pity at
the old man, from whose inflamed eyes the tears
were pouring down.

' You can't have much sense, sir, to ask me such
a thing,' he said. ' Would you ask a man to cut off
his hand ? What could a peasant do without his
land ? '

' You could buy twice as much. I will help you
to find it.'

Slimak shook his head. ' You are talking as
a man talks when he digs up a shrub in the woods.
" Come," he says, " you shall be near my cottage ! "
The shrub comes because it must, but it soon dies.'

The man with the beard approached and spoke
to his father in German.

' So you won't sell me your land ? ' said the old
man.

' I won't.'

' Not for seventy-five roubles ? '

'No.'

' And I tell you, you will sell it,' cried the
younger man, drawing his father away. They
went towards the bridge, talking German loudly.

The peasant rested his chin on his hand and
looked after them ; then his eyes fell on the manor-
house, and he returned to the cottage at full speed.
' Jagna,' he cried, ' do you know that the squire
has sold his estate ? ' The gospodyni crossed
herself with a spoon.

' In the name of the Father . . . Are you mad,
Josef ? Who told you so ? '

' Two Germans spoke to me just now ; they told
me. And, Jagna, they want to buy our land, our
own land ! '

' You are off your head altogether ! ' cried the

100 THE OUTPOST

woman. ' Jendrek, go and see if there are any
Germans about ; your father is talking nonsense.'

Jendrek returned with the information that he
had seen two men in blue overcoats the other side
of the bridge.

Slimak sat on the bench, his head drooping, his
hands resting limply on his knees. The morning
light had turned grey, and made men and objects
look dull. The gospodyni suddenly looked atten-
tively at her husband.

' Why are you so pale ? ' she asked. ' What is
the matter ? '

' What is the matter ? A nice question for
a clever woman to ask ! Don't you understand
that the Germans will take the field away from us
if the squire has sold it to them ? '

* Why should they ? We could pay the rent to
them.'

The woman tried to talk confidently, but her
voice was unsteady.

' You don't know what you're talking about !
Germans keep cattle and are sharp after grazing
land. Besides, they will want to get rid of me.'

' We shall see who gets rid of whom ! ' Slima-
kowa said sharply.

She came and stood in front of her husband,
with her arms akimbo, gradually raising her voice.

' Lord, what a man ! He has only just looked
at the Swabian1 vermin, and he has lost heart
already. They will take away the field ? Well,
what of that ? we will drive the cattle into it all
the same.'

' They will shoot the cattle.'

' That isn't allowed.'

1 The Polish peasants call all Germans ' Swabians '.

THE OUTPOST 101

' Then they will go to law and worry the life out
of me.'

' Very well, then we will buy fodder.'

' Where ? The gospodarze won't sell us any,
and we shan't get a blade from the Germans.'

The breakfast was boiling over, but the house-
wife paid no attention to it. She shook her clenched
fists at her husband.

' What do you mean, Josef ! Pull yourself
together ! This is bad, and that is no good ! . . .
What will you do then ? You are taking the
courage away from me, a woman, instead of making
up your mind what to do. Aren't you ashamed
before the children and Magda to sit there like
a dying man, rolling your eyes ? Do you think
I shall let the children starve for the sake of your
Germans, or do you think I shall get rid of the
cow ? Don't imagine that I shall allow you to sell
your land ! No fear ! If I fall down dead and they
bury me, I shall dig myself out again and prevent
you from doing the children harm ! Why are you
sitting there, looking at me like a sheep ? Eat
your breakfast and go to the manor. Find out if
the squire has really sold his land, and if he hasn't,
fall at his feet, and lie there till he lets you have
the field, even if you have to pay sixty roubles.'

' And if he has sold it ? '

' If he has sold it, may God punish him ! '

' That won't give us the field.'

' You are a fool ! ' she cried. ' We and the
children and the cattle have lived by God's grace
and not by the squire's.'

' That 's so,' said Slimak, suddenly getting up.
' Give me my breakfast. What are you crying

102 THE OUTPOST

After her passionate outburst Slimakowa had
actually broken down.

' How am I not to cry,' she sobbed, ' when the
merciful God has punished me with such an idiot
of a husband ? He will do nothing himself and
takes away my courage into the bargain.'

' Don't be a fool,' he said, with his face clouding.
' I'll go to the squire at once, even if I should have
to give sixty roubles.'

' But if the field is sold ? '

' Hang him, we have lived by the grace of God
and not by his.'

' Then where will you get fodder ? '

' Look after your pots and pans, and don't
meddle with a man's affairs.'

' The Germans will drive you away.'

' The deuce they will ! ' He struck the table
with his fist. ' If I were to fall down dead, if they
chopped me into little pieces, I wouldn't let the dogs
have my land. Give me my breakfast, or I'll ask
you the reason why ! . . . And you, Jendrek, be off
with Maciek, or I shall get the strap ! '

The sun shone into the ballroom of the manor-
house through every chink and opening ; streaks
of white light lay on the floor, which was dented
by the dancers' heels, and on the walls ; the
rays were reflected in the mirrors, rested on the
gilt cornices and on the polished furniture. In
comparison with them the light of the candles and
lamps looked yellow and turbid. The ladies were
pale and had blue circles round their eyes, the
powder was falling from their dishevelled hair,
their dresses were crumpled, and here and there in
holes. The padding showed under the imitation

THE OUTPOST 103

gold of the braids and belts of notables ; rich
velvets had turned into cheap velveteens, beaver
fur to rabbit skins, and silver armour to tin.
The musicians' hands dropped, the dancers' legs
had grown stiff. Intoxication had cooled and
given place to heaviness ; lips were breathing
feverishly. Only three couples were now turning
in the middle of the room, then two, then none.
There was a lack of arm-chairs for the men ; the
ladies hid their yawns behind their fans. At
last the music ceased, and as no one said any-
thing, a dead silence spread through the room.
Candles began to splutter and went out, lamps
smoked.

' Shall we go in to tea ? ' asked the squire, in
a hoarse voice.

' To bed ... to bed,' whispered the guests.

' The bedrooms are ready,' he said, trying to
sound cheerful, in spite of sleepiness and a cold.

The ladies immediately got up, threw their
wraps over their shoulders and left the room,
turning their faces away from the windows.

Soon the ballroom was empty, save for the old
cellist, who had gone to sleep with his arms round
his instrument. The bustle was transferred to
distant rooms ; there was much stamping upstairs
and noise of men's voices in the courtyard. Then
all became silent.

The squire came clinking along the passages,
looked dully round the ballroom, and said, yawn-
ing : ' Put out the lights, Mateus, and open the
windows. Where is my lady ? '

' My lady has gone to her room.'

My lady, in her orange-velvet gipsy costume
and a diamond hoop in her hair, was lying in

104 THE OUTPOST

an arm-chair, her head thrown back. The squire
dropped into another arm-chair, yawning broadly.

' Well, it was a great success.'

' Splendid,' yawned my lady.

' Our guests ought to be satisfied.' After a while
he spoke again.

' Do you know that I have sold the estate ? '

' To whom ? '

' To Hirschgold ; he is giving me seventy-five
roubles an acre/

' Thank God we shall get away at last.'

' Well, you might come and give me a kiss ! '

' I'm much too tired. Come here, if you want one.'

' I deserve that you should come here. I've
done exceedingly well.'

' No, I won't. Hirschgold . . . Hirschgold . . .
oh yes, some acquaintance of father's. The first
mazurka was splendid, wasn't it ? '

The squire was snoring.

CHAPTER VII

THE squire and his wife left for Warsaw a week
after the ball. Their place was taken by Hirsch-
gold's agent, a freckle-faced Jew, who installed
himself in a small room in the bailiff's house, spent
his days in looking through and sending out
accounts, and bolted the door and slept with two
revolvers under his pillow at night.

The squire had taken part of the furniture with
him, the rest of the suites and fixtures were sold
to the neighbouring gentry ; the Jews bought up
the library by the pound, the priest acquired the
American" organ, the garden-seats passed into

THE OUTPOST 105

Gryb's ownership, and for three roubles the peasant
Orzchewski became possessed of the large engraving
of Leda and the Swan, to which the purchaser and
his family said their prayers. The inlaid floors
henceforward decorated the magisterial court, and
the damask hangings were bought by the tailors
and made into bodices for the village girls.

When Slimak went a few weeks later to have
a look at the manor-house he could not believe his
eyes at the sight of the destruction that had taken
place. There were no panes in the windows and
not a single latch left on the wide-open doors ; the
walls had been stripped and the floors taken up.
The drawing-room was a dungheap, Pani Joselawa,
the innkeeper's wife, had put up hencoops there
and in the adjoining rooms ; axes and saws were
lying about everywhere. The farmhands, who
according to agreement were kept on till mid-
summer, strolled idly from corner to corner ; one
of the teamdrivers had taken desperately to drink ;
the housekeeper was ill with fever, and the pantry-
boy, as well as one of the farm-boys, were in prison
for stealing latches off the doors.

' Good God ! ' said the peasant.

He was seized with fear at the thought of the
unknown power which had ruined the ancient
manor-house in a moment. An invisible cloud
seemed to be hanging over the valley and the
village ; the first flash of lightning had struck and
completely shattered the seat of its owners.

Some days later the neighbourhood began to
swarm with strangers, woodcutters and sawyers,
mostly Germans. They walked and drove in
crowds along the road past Slimak's cottage ;
sometimes they marched in detachments like
E 3

106 THE OUTPOST

soldiers. They were quartered at the manor,
where they turned out the servants and the
remaining cattle : they occupied every corner.
At night they lit great fires in the courtyard, and
in the morning they all walked off to the woods.
At first it was difficult to guess what they were
doing. Soon, however, there was a distant echo
as of someone drumming with his fingers on the
table ; at last the sound of the axe and the thud
of falling trees was heard quite plainly. Fresh
inroads on the wavy contour of the forest appeared
continually; first " crevices, then windows, then
wide openings, and for the first time since the world
was the world, the astonished sky looked into the
valley from that side.

The wood fell : only the sky remained and the
earth with a few juniper bushes and countless rows
of tree-trunks, hastily stripped of their branches.
The rapacious axe had not spared one of fche leafy
tribe. Not one — not even the centenarian oak
which had been touched by lightning more than
once. Gazing upwards, this defier of storms had
hardly noticed the worms turning round its feet,
and the blows of their axes meant no more to it
than the tapping of the woodpecker. It fell
suddenly, convinced at the last that the world was
insecure after all, and not worth living in.

There was another oak, half withered, on the
branches of which the unfortunate Simon Golamb l
had hanged himself ; the people passed it in
fear.

' Flee ! ' it murmured, when the woodcutters
approached. ' I bring you death ; only one man
dared to touch my branches, and he died.' But
1 Polish spelling : Ootab,

THE OUTPOST 107

the woodcutters paid no heed, deeper and deeper
they sent the sharp axe into its heart, and with
a roar it swayed and fell.

The night-wind moaned over the corpses of the
strong trees, and the birds and wild creatures,
deprived of their native habitations, mourned.

Older still than the oaks were the huge boulders
thickly sown over the fields. The peasants had
never touched them ; they were too heavy to be
removed ; moreover, there was a superstition that
the rebellious devils had in the first days of the
creation thrown these stones at the angels, and
that it was unlucky to touch them. Overgrown
with moss they each lay in an island of green grass ;
the shepherds' lit their fires beneath them on chilly
nights, the ploughmen lay down in their shade on
a hot afternoon, the hawker would sometimes hide
his treasures underneath them.

Now their last hour had struck too ; men began
to busy themselves about them. At first the
village "people thought that the ' Swabians ' were
looking for treasure ; but Jendrek found out that
they were boring holes in the venerable stones.

' What are the idiots doing that for ? ' asked
Slimakowa. ' Blessed if I know what Js the good of
that to them ! '

' I know, neighbour,' said old Sobieska, blinking
her eyes ; ' they are boring because they have heard
that there are toads inside those big stones.'

' And what if there are ? '

' You see, they want to know if it 's true.'

' But what 's that to them ? '

* I'll be hanged if I know ! ' retorted Sobieska
in such a decided tone that Slimakowa considered
the matter as settled.

108 THE OUTPOST

The Germans, however, were not looking for
toads. Before long such a cannonading began
that the echoes reached the farthest ends of the
valley, telling every one that not even the rocks
were able to withstand the Germans.

' Those Swabians are a hard race,' muttered
Slimak, as he gazed on the giants that had been
dashed to pieces. He thought of the colonists for
whom the property had been bought, and who
now wanted his land as well.

' They are not anywhere about,' he thought ;
' perhaps they won't come after all.'

But they came.

One morning, early in April, Slimak went out
before sunrise as usual to say his prayers in the
open. The east was flushed with pink, the stars
were paling, only the morning star shone like
a jewel, and was welcomed from below by the
awakening birds.

The peasant's lips moved in prayer, while he
fixed his eyes on the white mist which covered the
ground like snow. Then it was that he heard
a distant sound from beyond the hills, a rumble
of carts and the voices of many people. He quickly
walked up the lonely pine hill and perceived a long
procession of carts covered with awnings, filled
with human beings and their domestic and agri-
cultural implements. Men in navy-blue coats and
straw hats were walking beside them, cows were
tied behind, and small herds of pigs were scram-
bling in and out of the procession. A little cart,
scarcely larger than a child's, brought up the rear ;
it was drawn by a dog and a woman, and conveyed
a man whose feet were dangling down in front.

' The Swabians are coming ! ' flashed through

THE OUTPOST 109

Slirnak's mind, but he put the thought away
from him.

1 Maybe they are gipsies,' he argued. But no —
they were not dressed like gipsies, and woodcutters
don't take cattle about with them — then who
were they ?

He shrank from the thought that the colonists
were actually coming.

' Maybe it 's they, maybe not . . .' he whispered.

For a moment a hill concealed them from his
view, and he hoped that the vision had dissolved
into the light of day. But there they were again,
and each step of their lean horses brought them
nearer. The sun was gilding the hill which they
were ascending, and the larks were singing brightly
to welcome them.

Across the valley the church bell was ringing.
Was it calling to prayers as usual, or did it warn
the people of the invasion of a foreign power ?

Slimak looked towards the village. The cottage-
doors were closed, no one was astir, and even if he
had shouted aloud, ' Look, gospodarze. the Germans
are here ! ' no one would have been alarmed.

The string of noisy people now began to file past
Slirnak's cottage. The tired horses were walking
slowly, the cows could scarcely lift their feet, the
pigs squeaked and stumbled. But the people were
happy, laughing and shouting from cart to cart.
They" turned round by the bridge on to the open
ground.

The small cart in the rear had now reached
Slirnak's gate ; the big dog fell down panting, the
man raised himself to a sitting position and the
girl took the strap from her shoulder and wiped
her perspiring forehead.

110 THE OUTPOST

Slimak was seized with pity for them ; he came
down from the hill and approached the travellers.

* Where do you al] come from ? Who are you ? }
he asked.

* We are colonists from beyond the Vistula/ the
girl answered. ' Our people have bought land here,
and we have come with them.'

' But have not you bought land also ? '
The woman shrugged her shoulders.

* Is it the custom with you for the women to drag
the men about ? '

' What can we do ? we have no horses and my
father cannot walk on his own feet.'

* Is your father lame ? '
1 Yes.'

The peasant reflected for a moment.

* Then he is hanging on to the others, as it were ? '

* Oh no,' replied the girl with much spirit,
' father teaches the children and I take in sewing,
and when there is no sewing to do I work in the
fields.'

Slimak looked at her with surprise and said,
after a pause : ' You can't be German, you talk
our language very well.'

* We are from Germany.'

* Yes, we are Germans,' said the man in the cart,
speaking for the first time.

Slimakowa and Jendrek now, came out of the
cottage and joined the group at the gate.

' What a strong dog ! ' cried Jendrek.

' Look here,' said Slimak, 'this lady has dragged
her lame father a long way in the cart ; would you
do that, you scamp ? '

' Why should I ? Haven't they any horses,
dad?'

THE OUTPOST 111

* We have had horses,' murmured the man in
the cart, ' but we haven't any now.'

He was pale and thin, with red hair and beard.

' Wouldn't you like to rest and have something
to eat after your long journey ? ' inquired Slimak.

' I don't want anything to eat, but my father
would like some milk.'

* Kun and get some milk, Jendrek,' cried Slimak.
' Meaning no offence,' said Slimakowa, ' but you

Germans can't have a country of your own, or else
you wouldn't come here.'

' This is our home,' the girl replied. ' I was born
in this country, the other side of the Vistula.'

Her father made an impatient movement and
said in a broken voice : ' We Germans have a
country of our own, larger than yours, but it 's not
pleasant to live in : too many people, too little
land ; it 's difficult to make a living, and we have
to pay heavy taxes and do hard military service,
and there are penalties for everything.'

He coughed and continued after a pause :
1 Everybody wants to be comfortable and live as
he pleases, and not as others tell him. It 's not
pleasant to live in our country, so we've come
here.'

Jendrek brought the milk and offered it to the
girl, who gave it to her father.

* God repay you ! ' sighed the invalid ; ' the
people in this country are kind.5

' I wish you would not do us harm,' said Slima-
kowa in a half-whisper.

' Why should we do you harm ? ' said the man.
' Do we take your land ? do we steal ? do we
murder you ? " We are quiet people, we get in
nobody's" way so long as nobody gets . . .'

112 THE OUTPOST

' You have bought the land here,' Slimak
interrupted.

' But why did your squire sell it to us ? If thirty
peasants had been settled here instead of one man,
who did nothing but squander his money, our
people would not have come. Why did not you
yourselves form a community and buy the village ?
Your money would have been as good as ours.
You have been settled here for ages, but the
colonists had to come in before you troubled about
the land, and then no sooner have they bought
it than they become a stumbling-block to you !
Why wasn't the squire a stumbling-block to you ? '

Breathless, he paused and looked at his wasted
arms, then continued : ' To whom is ifc that the
colonists resell their land ? To you peasants ! On
the other side of the Vistula * the peasants bought
up every scrap of our land.'

* One of your lot is always after me to sell him
my land,' said Slimak.

* To think of such a thing ! ' interposed his wife.
1 Who is he ? '

' How should I know ? there are two of them,
and they came twice, an old man and one with
a beard. They want my hill to put up a windmill,
they say.'

' That 's Hamer,' said the girl under her breath
to her father.

* Oh, Hamer,' repeated the invalid, ' he has

1 i. e. in Prussian Poland. One of the Polish people's
grievances is that the large properties are not sold direct
to them but to the colonists, and the peasants have to buy
the land from them. Statistics show that in spite of the
great activity of the German Colonization Commission
more and more land is constantly acquired by the Polish
peasants, who hold on to the land tenaciously.

THE OUTPOST Il3

caused us difficulties enough. Our people wanted
to go to the other side of the Bug, where land only
costs thirty roubles an acre, but he persuaded
them to come here, because they are building
a railway across the valley. So our people have
been buying land here at seventy roubles an acre
and have been running into debt with the Jew,
and we shall see what comes of it.'

The girl meanwhile had been eating coarse bread,
sharing it with the dog. She now looked across to
where the colonists were spreading themselves over
the fields.

1 We must go, father,' she said.

' Yes, we must go ; what do I owe you for the
milk, gospodarz ? '

The peasant shrugged his shoulders.

' If we were obliged to take money for a little
thing like that, I shouldn't have asked you.'

' Well, God repay you ! '

' God speed you,' said Slimak and his wife.

' Strange folk, those Germans,' he said, when they
had slowly moved off. ( He is a clever man, yet he
goes about in that little cart like an old beggar.'

' And the girl ! ' said Slimakowa, ' whoever
heard of dragging an old man about, as if you were
a horse.'

* They're not bad,' said Slimak, returning to his
cottage.

The conversation with the Germans had reas-
sured him that they were not as terrible as he had
fancied.

When Maciek went out after breakfast to plough
the potato-fields, Slimak slipped off.

' You've got to put up the fence ! ' his wife
called out after him.

114 THE OUTPOST

* That won't run away,' he answered, and
banged the door> fearful lest his wife should detain
him.

He crouched as he ran through the yard, wishing
to attract her attention as little as possible, and
went stealthily up the hill to where Maciek was
perspiring over his ploughing.

* How about those Swabians ? ' asked the
labourer.

Slimak sat down on the slope so that he could
not be seen from the cottage, and pulled out his
pipe. '

' You might sit over there,' Maciek said, pointing
with his whip to a raised place ; ' then I could smell
the smoke.'

' What 's the good of the smoke to you ? I'll
give you my pipe to finish, and meanwhile it does
not grieve the old woman to see me sitting here
wasting my time.' He lit his pipe very deliberately,
rested his elbows on his knees and his head in his
hands and looked into the valley, watching the
crowd of Germans.

With their covered carts they had enclosed
a square into which they had driven their cattle
and horses ; inside and outside of this the people
were bustling about. Some put a portable manger
on a stand and fed the cows, others ran to the river
with buckets. The women brought out their
saucepans and little sacks of vegetables and a crowd
of children ran down the ravine for fuel.

* What crowds of children they have ! ' said Sli-
mak ; ' we have not as many in the whole village.'

' Thick as lice,' said Maciek.
Slimak could not wonder enough. Yesterday
the field had been empty and quiet, to-day it was

THE OUTPOST 115

like a fair. People by the river, people in the
ravines, people on the fields, who chop the bushes,
carry wood, make fires, feed and water the animals !
One man had already opened a retail-shop on a cart
and was obviously doing good business. The
women were pressing round him, buying salt,
sugar, vinegar. Some young mothers had made
cradles of shawls, suspended on short pitchforks,
and while they were cooking with one hand they
rocked the cradle with the other. There was^
a veterinary surgeon, too, who examined the foot
of a lame horse, and a barber was shaving an old
Swabian on the step of his cart.

* Do you notice how quickly they work ? It 's
farther for them to fetch the firewood than for us,
yet we take half the day over it and they do it
before you can say two prayers.'

' Oh ! oh ! ' said Maciek, who seemed to feel
this remark as an aspersion.

' But, then, they work together,' continued
Slimak ; ' when our people go out in a crowd
every one attends to his own business, and rests
when he likes or gets into the way of the others.
But these dogs work together as if they were used
to each other ; if one of them were to lie down on
the ground the others would cram work into his
hand and stand over him till he had finished it.
Watch them yourself.'

He gave his pipe to Maciek and returned to the
cottage.

* They are quick folk, . those Swabians,' he
muttered, ' and clever ! ' Within half an hour he
had discovered the two secrets of modern work :
organization and speed.

About noon two colonists came to the gospo-

116 THE OUTPOST

darstwo and asked Slimak to sell them butter and
potatoes and hay. He let them have the former
without bargaining, but he refused the hay.

* Let us at least have a cartload of straw/ they
asked with their foreign accent.

' I won't. I haven't got any.'
The men got angry.

* That scoundrel Hamer is giving us no end of
trouble,' one cried, dashing his cap on the ground;

J he told us we should get fodder and everything
at the farms. We can't get any at the manor
either ; the Jews from the inn are there and won't
stir from the place.'

Just as they were leaving, a brichka drove up
containing the two Hamers, whose faces were now
quite familiar to Slimak. The colonists rushed to
the vehicle with shouts and explanations, gesticu-
lating wildly, pointing hither and thither, and
talking in turns, for even in their excitement they
seemed to preserve system and order.

The Hamers remained perfectly calm, listening
patiently and attentively, until 'the others were
tired of shouting. When they had finished, the
younger man answered them at some length, and
at last they shook hands and the colonists took up
their sacks of potatoes and departed cheerfully.

' How are you, gospodarz ? ' called the elder
man to Slimak. ' Shall we come to terms yet ? '

1 What 's the use of .talking, father ? ' said the
other ; * he will come to us of his own accord ! '

* Never ! ' cried Slimak, and added under his
breath : ' They are dead set on me — the vermin !
Queer folk ! ' he observed to his wife, looking after
the departing brichka, i when our people . are
quarrelling, they don't stop to listen, but these

THE OUTPOST 117

seem to understand each other all the same and
to smooth things over.'

' What are you always cracking up the Swabians
for, you old silly ? ' returned his wife. ' You don't
seem to remember that they want to take your
land away from you. ... I can't make you out ! '

1 What can they do to me ? I won't let them
have it, and they can't rob me.'

' Who knows ? They are many, and you are only
one.'

' That 's God's will ! I can see they have more
sense than I have, but when it comes to holding on,
there I can match them ! Look at all the wood-
peckers on that little tree ; that tree is like us
peasants. The squire sits and hammers, the parish
sits and hammers, the Jews and the Germans sit
and hammer, yet in the end they all fly away and
the tree is still the tree.'

The evening brought a visit from old Sobieska,
who stumbled in with her demand of a ' thimbleful
of whisky '.

' I nearly gave up the ghost,' she cried, ' I've run
so fast to tell you the news.'

She was rewarded with a thimble which a giant
could well have worn on his finger.

* Oh, Lord \ ' she cried, when she had drained
it, ' this is the judgement day for some people
in the village ! You see, Gryb and Orzchewski
had always taken for granted that the colonists
wouldn't come, and they had meant to drive a little
bargain between them and keep some of the best
land and settle Jasiek Gryb on it like a nobleman,
and he was to marry Orzchewski's Paulinka. You
know, she had learnt embroidery from the squire's
wife, and Jasiek had been doing work in the bailiff's

118 THE OUTPOST

office and now goes about in an overcoat on high-
days and holidays and . . . give me another thimble-
ful, or I shall feel faint and can't talk. . . . Mean-
while, as I told you, the colonists had paid down
half the money to the Jew, and here they are, that 's
certain ! When Gryb hears of it, he comes and
abuses Josel ! " You cur of a Jew, you Caiaphas,-
you have crucified Christ and now you are cheating
me ! You told me the Germans wouldn't pay up,
and here they are ! " Whereupon Josel says : " We
don't know yet whether they will stay ! " At first
Gryb wouldn't listen and shouted and banged his
fists on the table, but at last Josel drew him off to
his room with Orzchewski, and they made some
arrangement among themselves.'

' He 's a fool,' said Slimak ; £ he wasn't cute
enough to buy the land, he won't be able to cope
with the Germans.'

* Not cute enough ? ' cried the old woman.
' Give me a thimbleful. . . . Josel 's clever enough,
anyway . . . and his brother-in-law is even better
. . . they'll deal with the Swabians ... I know what
I know . . . give me a thimbleful . . . give me a
thim . . .' She became incoherent.

' What was that she was saying ? ' asked
Slimakowa.

' The usual things she says when she 's tipsy. She
is in service with Josel, so she thinks him almighty.'

When night came, Slimak again went to look
at the camp. The people had retired under their
awnings, the cattle were lying down inside the
square, only the horses were grazing in the fields
and ravines. At times a flame from the camp fires
flared up, or a horse neighed ; from hour to hour
the call of a sleepy watchman was heard.

THE OUTPOST 119

Slimak returned and threw himself on his bed,
but could find no rest. The darkness deprived him
of energy, and he thought with fear of the Germans
who were so many and he but one. Might they not
attack him or set his house on fire ?

About midnight a shot rang out, followed by
another. He ran into the back-yard and came upon
the equally frightened Maciek. Shouts, curses, and
the clatter of horses' hoofs came from beyond the
river. Gradually the noise subsided.

Slimak learned in the morning from the colonists
that horse-thieves had stolen in among the horses.

The peasant was taken aback. Never before had
such a thing happened in the neighbourhood.

The news of the attack spread like wildfire and
was improved upon in every village. It was said
that there was a gang of horse-stealers about, who
removed the horses to Prussia ; that the Germans
had fought with them all night, and that some had
been killed.

At last these rumours reached the ears of the
police-sergeant, who harnessed his fat mare, put
a small cask and some empty bags into his cart,
and drove off in pursuit of the thieves.

The Germans treated him to smoked ham and
excellent brandy, and Fritz Hamer explained that
they suspected two discharged manor-servants,
Kuba Sukiennik and Jasiek Rogacz, of stealing the
horses.

' They have been arrested before for stealing
locks off the doors, but had to be released because
there were no witnesses,' said the sergeant. ' Which
of the gentlemen shot at them ? Has he a licence
to carry firearms ? '

Hamer, seeing that the question was becoming

120 THE OUTPOST

ticklish, led him aside and explained things so
satisfactorily to him that he soon drove off,
recommending that watch should be kept, and
that the colonists should not carry firearms.

' I suppose your farm will soon be standing, sir ? '
he asked.

' In a month's time,' replied Hamer.

' Capital .! . . . we must make a day of it ! '

He drove on to the manor-house, where Hirsch-
gold's agent was so delighted to see him that he
brought out a bottle of Crimean wine. On the
topic of thieves, however, he had no explanation
to offer.

' When I heard them shooting I at once snatched
up my revolvers, one in each hand, and I didn't
close my eyes all night.'

' And have you a licence to carry firearms ? '

' Why shouldn't I ? '

1 For two ? '

e Oh well, the second is broken ; I only keep it for
show.'

' How many workmen do you employ ? '

' About a hundred.'

' Are all their passports in order ? '

The agent gave him a most satisfactory account
as to this in his own way and the sergeant took
leave.

' Be careful, sir,' he recommended, ' once
robbery begins in the village it will be difficult to
stop it. And in case of accident you will do well
to let me know first before you do anything.' He
said this so impressively that the agent hence-
forward took the two Jews from the manor-house
to sleep in the bailiff's cottage.

Slimak's gospodarstwo was the sergeant's next

THE OUTPOST 121

destination. Slimakowa was just pouring out the
peeled-barley soup when the stout administrator
of the law entered.

1 The Lord be praised,' he said. ' What news ? '

' In Eternity. We are all right.'

The sergeant looked round.

' Is your husband at home ? '

' Where else should he be ? Fetch your father,
Jendrek.'

' Beautiful barley ; is it your own ? '

' Of course it is.'

1 You might give me a sackful. I'll pay you next
time I come.'

' I'll get the bag at once, sir.'

' Perhaps you can sell me a chicken as well ? '

' We can.'

' Mind it 's tender, and put it under the box.'

Slimak came in. ' Have you heard, gospodarz,
who it was that tried to steal the horses ? '

' How should I know ? '

' They say in the village that it was Sukiennik
and Rogacz.'

' I don't know about that. I have heard they
cannot find work here, because they have been in
prison.'

' Have you got any vodka ? The dust makes
one's throat dry.'

Vodka and bread and cheese were brought.

' You'd better be careful,' he said, when he
departed, ' for they will either rob you or suspect
you.'

' By God's grace no one has ever robbed me,
and it will never happen.'

The sergeant went to Josel, who received him
enthusiastically. He invited him into the parlour

122 THE OUTPOST

and assured him that all his licences were in
order.

' There is no signboard at the gate.'

' I'll put one up at once of whatever kind you
like,' said the innkeeper obsequiously, and ordered
a bottle of porter.

The sergeant now opened the question of the
night-attack.

' What night-attack ? ' jeered Josel. ' The
Germans shot at one another and then got
frightened and made out that there was a gang
of robbers about. Such things don't happen
here.'

The sergeant wiped his moustache. ' All the
same Sukiennik and Rogacz have been after the
horses.'

Josel made a wry face. ' How could they, when
they were in my house that night.'

' In your house ? '

' To be sure,' Josel answered carelessly. ' Gryb
and Orzchewski both saw them . . . dead drunk
they were. What are they to do ? they can't get
regular work, and what a man perchance earns in
a day he likes to drink away at night.'

' They might have got out.'

' They might, but the stable was locked and the
key with the foreman.' The conversation passed on
to other topics.

' Look after Sukiennik and Rogacz,' the sergeant
said, on his departure, when he and his mare had
been sufficiently rested.

' Am I their father, or are they in my service ? '

' They might rob you.'

' Oh ! I'll see to that all right ! '

The sergeant returned home, half asleep, half

THE OUTPOST 123

awake. Sukiennik and Rogacz kept passing before
his vision ; they had their hands full of locks and
were surrounded by horses. Josel's smiling face
was hovering over them and now and then old
Gryb and his son Jasiek jeered from behind a cloud.
He sat up ... startled. But there was nothing near
him except the white hen under the box and the
trees by the wayside. He spat.

' Bah . . . dreams ! ' he muttered.

The peasants were relieved when day after day
passed and there was no sign qf building in the
camp. They jumped to the conclusion that 'either
the Germans had not been able to come to terms
with Hirschgold, or had quarrelled with the
Hamers, or that they had lost heart because of the
horse-thieves.

' Why, they haven't so much as measured out
the ground ! ' cried Orzchewski, and washed down
the remark with a huge glass of beer.

He had, however, not yet wiped his mouth when
a cart pulled up at the inn and the surveyor
alighted. They knew* him directly by his mous-
taches, which were trimmed to the resemblance of
eels, and by his sloeberry-coloured nose.

While Gryb and Orzchewski sorrowfully con-
ducted each other home, they comforted them-
selves with the thought that the surveyor might
only be spending the night in the village on his
way elsewhere.

' God grant it, I want to see that young scamp
of a Jasiek settled and married, and if I let him
out of my sight he goes to the dogs directly.'

* My Paulinka is a match for him ; she'll look
after him ! '

' You don't know what you're talking of,

124 THE OUTPOST

neighbour ; it will take the three of us to look
after him. Lately he hasn't spent a single night at
home, and sometimes I don't see him for a week.'

The surveyor started work in the manor-fields
the next morning, and for several days was seen
walking about with a crowd of Germans in atten-
dance on all his orders, carrying his poles, putting
up a portable table, providing him with an umbrella
or a place in the shade where he could take long
pulls out of his wicker flask. The peasants stood
silently watching them.

' I could measure as well as that if I drank as
much as he does,' said one of them.

' Ah, but that is why he is a surveyor,' said
another, * because he has a strong head.'

No sooner had he departed than the Germans
drove off and returned with heavy cartloads of
building materials. One fine day a small troop
of masons and carpenters appeared with their
implements. A party of colonists went out to
meet them, followed by a large crowd of women
and children. They met at an appointed place,
where refreshments and a barrel of beer had been
provided.

Old Hamer, in a faded drill- jacket, Fritz in
a black coat, and Wilhelm, adorned with a scarlet
waistcoat with red flowers, were busy welcoming
the guests ; Wilhelm had charge of the barrel of
beer.

Maciek had noticed these preparations and gave
the alarm, and all the inhabitants of the gospo-
darstwo watched the proceedings with the keenest
interest. They saw old Hamer taking up a stake
and driving it into the ground with a wooden
hammer.

THE OUTPOST 125

' Hoch ! . . . Hoch ! ' shouted the workmen.
Hamer bowed, took a second stake and carried it
northwards, accompanied by the crowd. The
women and children were headed by the school-
master in his little cart. He now lifted his cap
high into the air, and at this sign the whole crowd
started to sing Luther's hymn :

* A stronghold sure our God remains,
A shield and hope unfailing,
In need His help our freedom gains,
O'er all our fear prevailing ;
Our old malignant foe
Would fain work us woe ;
With craft and great might
He doth against us fight,
On earth is no one like him.'

At the first note Slimak had taken off his cap,
his wife crossed herself, and Maciek stepped aside
and knelt down. Stasiek, with wide-open eyes,
began to tremble, and Jendrek started running
down the hill, waded through the river, and
headed at full speed for the camp.

While Hamer was driving the stake into the
ground the procession, slowly coming up to him,
continued :

' Our utmost might is all in vain,
We straight had been rejected,
But for us fights the perfect Man
By God Himself elected ;
Ye ask : Who may He be ?
The Lord Christ is HeJ
The God, by hosts ador'd,
Our great Incarnate Lord,
Who all His foes will vanquish.'

Never had the peasants heard a hymn like this,
so solemn, yet so triumphant, they who only knew
their plainsongs, which rose to heaven like a great

126 THE OUTPOST

groan.: ' Lord, we lay our guilt before Thine
eyes.'

A cry from Stasiek roused the parents from
their reverie.

' Mother . . . mother . . . they are singing ! '
stammered the child ; his lips became blue, and he
fell to the ground.

The frightened parents lifted him up and carried
him into the cottage, where he recovered when the
singing ceased. They had always known that the
singing at church affected him very deeply, but
they had never seen him like this.

Jendrek, meanwhile, although wet through
and cold, stood riveted by the spectacle he was
watching. Why were these people walking and
singing like this ? Surely, they wanted to drive
away some evil power from their future dwellings,
and, not having incense or blessed chalk, they were
using stakes. Well, after all, a club of oakwood
was better against the devil than chalk ! Or were
they themselves bewitching the place ?

He was struck with the difference in the
behaviour of the Germans. The old men, women,
and children were walking along solemnly, singing,
but the young fellows and the workmen stood in
groups, smoking and laughing. Once they made
a noisy interruption when Wilhelm Hamer, who
presided at the beer-barrel, lifted up his glass. The
young men shouted ' Hoch ! hurrah ! ' Old Hamer
looked round disapprovingly, and the schoolmaster
shook his fist.

As the procession drew near, Jendrek heard
a woman's voice above the children's shrill trebles,
Hamer's guttural bass and the old people's nasal
tones ; it waa clear, full, and inexpressively

THE OUTPOST 127

moving. It made his heart tremble within him.
The sounds shaped themselves in his imagination
to the picture of a beautiful weeping-willow.

He knew that it must be the voice of the school-
master's daughter, whom he had seen before. At
that time the dog had engaged his attention more
than the girl, but now her voice took entire posses-
sion of the boy's soul, to the exclusion of everything
else he heard or saw. He, too, wanted to sing, and
began under his breath :

' The Lord is ris'n to-day,
The Lord Jesus Christ . . . '

It seemed to fit in with the melody which the
Germans were just singing.

He was roused from this state by the young
men's voices ; he caught sight of the schoolmaster's
daughter and unconsciously moved towards her.
But the young men soon brought him to his
senses. They pulled his hat over his ears, pushed
him into the middle of the crowd, and, wet,
smeared with sand, looking more like a scarecrow
than a boy, he was passed from hand to hand like
a ball. Suddenly his eyes met those of the girl,
and a wild spirit awoke in him. He kicked one
young man over with his bare legs, tore the shirt
off another one's back, butted old Hamer in the
stomach, and then stood with clenched fists in the
space he had cleared, looking where he might break
through. Most of the men laughed at him, but
some were for handling him roughly. Fortunately
old Hamer recognized him.

' Why, youngster, what are you up to ? '
' They're bullying me,' he said, while the tears
were rising in his throat.

128 THE OUTPOST

' Don't you come from that cottage ? What are
you doing here ? '

' I wanted to listen to your singing, but those
scoundrels . . .'

He stopped suddenly when he saw the grey eyes
of the schoolmaster's daughter fixed on him. She
offered him the glass of beer she had been drinking
from.

' You are wet through,' she said. ' Take a good
pull.'

' I don't want it,' said the boy, and felt ashamed
directly ; it did not seem well-mannered to speak
rudely to one so beautiful.

' I might get tipsy ... J he cried, but drained
the glass, looked at her again and blushed so
deeply that the girl smiled sadly as she looked
at him.

At that moment violins and cellos struck up ;
Wilhelm Hamer came heavily bounding along
and took the girl away to dance. Her yearning
eyes once more rested on Jendrek's face.

He felt that something strange was happening
to him. A terrible anger and sorrow gripped him
by the throat ; he wanted to throw himself on
Wilhelm and tear his flowered waistcoat off his
back ; at the same time he wanted to cry aloud.
Suddenly he turned to go.

' Are you going ? ' asked the schoolmaster.
* Give my compliments to your father.'

1 And you can tell him from me that I have
rented the field by the river from Midsummer
Day,' Hamer called after him.

' But dad rented it from the squire ! '

Hamer laughed . . . * The squire ! We are the
squires now, and the field is mine.'

THE OUTPOST 129

As Jendrek neared the road he came upon
a peasant, hidden behind a bush, who had been
watching. It was Gryb.

' Be praised,' said Jendrek.

* Who 's praised at your place ? ' growled the
old man ; ' it must be the devil and not the Lord,
since you are taking up with the Germans.'

' Who's taking up with them ? '

The peasant's eyes flashed and his dry skin
quivered.

' You're taking up with them ! ' he cried,
shaking his fist, ' or perhaps I didn't see you
running off to them like a dog through the water
to cadge for a glass of beer, nor your father and
mother on the hill praying with the Swabians . . .
praying to the devil ! God has punished them
already, for something has fallen on Stasiek. There
will be more to come . . . you wait ! '

Jendrek slowly walked home, puzzled and sad.
When he returned to the cottage, he found Stasiek
lying ill. He told his father what Gryb had said.

' He 's an old fool,' replied Slimak. ' What !
should a man stand like a beast when others are
praying, even if they are Swabians ? '

' But their praying has bewitched Stasiek.'
Slimak looked gloomy.

' Why should it have been their prayers ?
Stasiek is easily upset. Let a woman but sing in
the fields and he'll begin to shake all over.'

The matter ended there. Jendrek tried to busy
himself about the cottage, but he felt stifled
indoors. He roamed about in the ravines, stood
on the hill and watched the Germans, or forced his
way through brambles. Wherever he went, the
image of the schoolmaster's daughter went with

230 ™

130 THE OUTPOST

him ; he saw her tanned face, grey eyes, and
graceful movements. Sometimes her powerful,
entrancing voice seemed to come to him as from
a depth.

' Has she cast a spell over me ? ' he whispered,
frightened, and continued to think of her.

CHAPTER VIII

SLIMAK had never been so well off as he was that
spring ; money was flowing into his chest while he
took his leisure and looked around him at all the
new things.

Formerly, after a heavy day, he had thrown
himself on his bed and had scarcely fallen asleep
like a stone when his wife would pull the cover
off him, crying : ' Get up, Josef ; it is morning.'

' How can it be morning ? ' he thought ; ' I've
only just lain down.' All the same he had to gather
his bones together, when each one individually
held to the bed ; willy-nilly he had to get up. So
hard was the resolution sometimes, that he even
thought with pleasure of the eternal sleep, when his
wife would no longer stand over him and urge :
1 G-et up, wash . . . you'll be late ; they'll take it
off your wages.'

Then he would dress, and drag the equally tired
horses out of the stable, so overcome with sleep
that he would pause on the threshold and mutter,
* I shall stay at home ! ' But he was afraid of his
wife, and he also knew very well that he could
not make both ends meet at the gospodarstwo
without his wages.

THE OUTPOST 131

Now all that was different. He slept as long as
he liked. Sometimes his wife pulled him by the
leg from habit and said : ' Get up, Josef.' But,
opening only one eye, lest sleep should run away
from him, he would growl : ' Leave me alone ! '
and sleep, maybe, till the church bell rang for Mass
at seven o'clock.

There was really nothing to get up for now.
Maciek had long ago finished the spring-work in the
fields ; the Jews had left the village, carrying
their business farther afield, following the new
railway liae now under construction, and no one
sent for him from the manor — for there was no
manor. He smoked, strolled about for days
together in the yard, or looked at the abundantly
sprouting corn. His favourite pastime, however,
was to watch the Germans, whose habitations were
shooting up like mushrooms.

By the end of May Hamer and two or three others
had finished building, and their gospodarstwos
were pleasant to look at. They resembled each
other like drops of water ; each one stood in the
middle of its fields, the garden was by the roadside,
shut off by a wooden fence ; the house, roughcast,
consisted of four large rooms, and behind it was a
good-sized square of farm-buildings.

All the buildings were larger and loftier than
those of the Polish peasants, and were clean and
comfortable, although they looked stiff and severe ;
for while the roofs of the Polish gospodarstwos
overhung on the four sides, those of the Germans
did so only at the front and back.

But they had large windows, divided into six
squares, and the doors were made by the carpenter.
Jendrek, who daily ran over to the settlement

132 THE OUTPOST

reported that there were wooden floors, and that
the kitchen was a separate room with an iron-
plated stove.

Slimak sometimes dreamt that he would build
a place like that, only with a different roof.
Then he would jump up, because he felt he ought
to go somewhere and do work, for he was bored
and ashamed of idling ; at times he would long for
the manor -fields over which he had guided the
plough, where the settlement now stood. Then a
great fear would seize him that he would be power-
less when the Germans, who had felled forests,
shattered rocks and driven away the squire, should
start on him in earnest.

But he always reassured himself. He had been
neighbours with them now for two months and
they had done him no harm. They worked quietly,
minded their cattle so that they should not stray,
and even their children were not troublesome, but
went to school at Hamer's house, where the infirm
schoolmaster kept them in order.

' They are respectable people,' he satisfied him-
self. 'I'm better off with them than with the
squire.'

He was, for they bought from him and paid well.
In less than a month he had taken a hundred
roubles from them ; at the manor this had meant
a whole year's toil.

* Do you think, Josef, that the Germans will
always go on buying from you ? ' his wife asked
from time to time. ' They have their own gospo-
darstwos now, and better ones than yours ; you
will see, it will last through the summer at the best,
and after that they won't buy a stick from us.'

* We shall see,' said the peasant.

THE OUTPOST 133

He was secretly counting on the advantages
which he would reap from the building of the new
line ; had not the engineer promised him this ?
He even laid in provisions with this object, having
to go farther afield, for the peasants in the village
would no longer sell him anything.

But he soon realized that prices had risen ; the
Germans had long ago scoured the neighbourhood
and bought without bargaining.

Once he met Josel who, instead of smiling
maliciously at him as usual, asked him to enter
into a business transaction with him.

* What sort of business ? ' asked Slimak.

' Build a cottage on your land for my brofcher-
in-law.'

' What for ? '

* He wants to set up a shop and deal with the
railway people, else the Germans will take away all
the business from under our noses.'

Slimak reflected.

* No, I don't want a Jew on my land,' he said.
* I shouldn't be the first to be eaten up by you
longcurls.'

' You don't want to live with a Jew, but you are
not afraid to pray with the Germans,' said the
Jew, pale with anger.

Slimak was made to feel the profound unpopu-
larity he had incurred in the village. At church
on Sundays hardly anyone answered him * In
Eternity ', and when he passed a group he would
hear loud talk of heresy, and God's judgement
which would follow.

He therefore ordered a Mass one Sunday, on the
advice of his wife, and went to confession 'with her
and Jendrek ; but this did not improve matters,

134 THE OUTPOST

for the villagers discussed over their beer in the
evening what deadly sin he might have been guilty
of to go to confession and pray so fervently.

Even old Sobieska rarely appeared and came
furtively to ask for her vodka. Once, when her
tongue was loosened, she said : ' They say you
have turned into a Lutheran. ... It 's true,' she
added, ' there is only one merciful God, still, the
Germans are a filthy thing ! '

The Germans now began mysteriously to dis-
appear with their carts at dawn of day, carrying
large quantities of provisions with them. Slimak
investigated this matter, getting up early himself.
Soon he saw a tiny yellow speck in the direction
which they had taken. It grew larger towards
evening, and he became convinced that it was the
approaching railway line.

' The scoundrels ! ' he said to his wife, * they've
been keeping this secret so as to steal a march on
me, but I shall drive over.'

' Well, look sharp! J cried his wife; 'those railway
people were to have been our best customers.'

He promised to go next day, but overslept him-
self, and Slimakowa barely succeeded in driving
him ofi the day after.

He gathered some information on the way from
the peasants. Many of them had volunteered for
work, but only a few had been taken on, and those
had soon returned, tired out.

' It 's dogs' work, not men's,' they told him ;
' yet it might be worth your while taking the
horses, for carters earn four roubles* a day.'

' Four roubles a day ! ' thought Slimak, laying
on to the horses.

THE OUTPOST 135

He drove on smartly and soon came alongside
the great mounds of clay on which strangers were
at work, huge, strong," bearded men, wheeling
large barrows. Slimak could not wonder enough
at their strength and industry.

' Certainly, none of our men would do this,' he
thought.

No one paid any attention to him or spoke to
him. At last two Jews caught sight of him and one
asked : ' What do you want, gospodarz ? ' The
embarrassed peasant twisted his cap in his hands.

' I came to ask whether the gentlemen wanted
any barley or lard ? '

* My dear man/ said the Jew, ' we have our
regular contractors ; a nice mess we should be in,
if we had to buy every sack of barley from the
peasants ! '

' They must be great people,' thought Slimak,
' they won't buy from the peasants, they must be
buying from the gentry.'

So he bowed to the ground before the Jew, who
was on the point of walking away.

' I entreat the favour of being allowed to cart
for the gentlemen.'

This humility pleased the Jew.

' Go over there, my dear fellow,' he said, ' perhaps
they will take you on.'

Slimak bowed again and made his way through
the crowd with difficulty. Among other carts he
saw those of the settlers.

Fritz Hamer came forward to meet 'him ; he
seemed to be in a position of some authority there.

' What do you want ? ' he asked.

* I want a job too.' The settler frowned.
' You won't get one here ! '

136 THE OUTPOST

Seeing that Slimak was looking round, he went
to the inspector and spoke to him.

' No work for carters,' the latter at once shouted,
' no work ! As it is we have too many, you are only
getting in people's way. Be off f ' The brutal
way in which this order was given so bewildered
the peasant that, in turning, he almost upset his
cart ; he drove off at full speed, feeling as if he had
offended some great power which had worked
enough destruction already and was now turning
hills into valleys and valleys into hills.

But gradually he reflected more calmly. People
from the village had been taken on, and he re-
membered seeing peasants' carts at the embank-
ment. Why had he been driven away ?

It was quite clear that some one wished to shut
him out.

' Curse the Judases, they're outdoing the Jews,'
he muttered and felt a horror of the Germans for
the first time.

He told his wife briefly that there was no work,
and betook himself to the settlement. Old Hamer
seemed to be in the middle of a heated argument
with Hirschgold and two other men. Whenhecaught
sight of the peasant he took them into the barn.

' Sly dog,' murmured Slimak; 'he knows what
I've come for. I'll tell him straight to his face
'when he comes out.'

But at every step his courage failed him more and
more. He hesitated between his desire to turn back
and his unwillingness to lose a job ; he hung about
the fences, and looked at the women digging in
their gardens. A murmur like the hum of a beehive
caught his ears : one of the windows in Hamer' s
house was open and he looked into a schoolroom.

THE OUTPOST 137

One of the children was reciting something in a
clamorous voice, the others were talking under
their breath. The schoolmaster was standing in
the middle of the room, calling out ' Silence ! ' from
time to time.

When he saw Slimak, he beckoned to his
daughter to take his place, and the hubbub of
voices increased. Slimak watched her trying to
cope with the children.

The schoolmaster came up behind him, walking
heavily.

' Did you come to see how we teach our children ? '
he asked, smilingly.

' Nothing of tie kind,' said Slimak; * I've come
to tell Hamer that he is a scoundrel.' He related
his experience.

* What have I done ? ' he asked. ' Soon I may
not be able to earn anything ; is one to starve
because it pleases them ? '

' The truth is,' said the schoolmaster, ' that you
are a thorn in their flesh.'

f Why ? '

1 Your land is right in the middle of Hamer's
fields and that spoils his farm, but that is not the
reason as much as your hill ; he wants it for a
windmill. They have nothing but level ground ;
it 's the best land in the settlement, but no good for
a windmill ; if they don't put it up, one of the other
settlers will.'

' And why are they so crazy after a windmill ? '

' Well, it matters a great deal to them ,• if
Wilhelm had a windmill he could marry Miller
Knap's daughter from Wolka and get a thousand
and twenty roubles with her ; the Hamers may
go bankrupt without that money. That's why
F 3

138 THE OUTPOST

you stick in their throats. If you sold them your
land they would pay you well.'"

* And I won't sell ! I will neither help them to
stay here nor do myself harm for their benefit ;
when a man leaves the land of his fathers, . . .'

' There will be trouble,' the schoolmaster said
earnestly.

' Then let there be ; I won't die because it pleases
them.'

Slimak returned home without any further wish
to see Hamer ; he knew there could be no under-
standing between them.

Maciek had discovered at dawn one morning
that a crowd had reached the river -bank by the
ravines, and Slimak, hurrying thither, found some
gospodarze from the village among the men.

' What is happening ? '

' They are going to throw up a dam and build
a bridge across the Bialka,' Wisniewski replied.

' And what are you doing here ? '

* We have been taken on to cart sand.'
Slimak discovered the Hamers in the crowd.

4 Nice neighbours you are ! ' he said bitterly,
going up to them. e Here you are sending all the
way to the village for carts, and you won't let me
have a job.'

' We will send for you when you are living in the
village,' Fritz answered, and turned his back.

An elderly gentleman was standing near them,
and Slimak turned to him and took off his cap.
' ' Is this justice, sir?' he said. 'The Germans
are getting rich on the railway, and I don't earn
a kopek. Last year two gentlemen came and
promised that I should make a lot of money. Well,
your honours are building the railway now, but I've

THE OUTPOST 139

never yet taken my horses out of the stable. A
German with thirty acres of ground is having a
good job, and I have only ten acres and a wife and
children to keep, as well as the farmhand and the
girl. We shall have to starve, and it 's all because
the Germans have a grudge against me.'

He had spoken rapidly and breathlessly, and
after a moment of surprise the old man turned
to Fritz Hamer.

' Why did you not take him on ? *

Fritz looked insolently at him.

' Is it you who has to answer for the cartage or
I ? Will you pay my fines when the men fail me ?
I take on those whom I can trust.5

The old man bit his lip, but did not reply.

' I can't help you, my brother,' he said ; * you
shall drive me as often as I come to this neighbour-
hood. It isn't much, but every little helps. Where
do you live ? '

Slimak pointed to his cottage ; he was longing
to speak further, but the old man turned to give
some orders, and the peasant could only embrace
his knees.

Old Hamer waylaid him on the way back.

' Do you see now how badly you have done for
yourself ? You will do even worse, for Fritz is
furious.'

* God is greater than Fritz.'

' Will you take seventy-five roubles an acre and
settle on the other side of the Bug ? You will have
twice as much land.'

* I would not go to the other side of the Bug for
double the money ; you go, if you like ! '

When the angry men were looking back at each
other, the one was standing with a stubborn face,
his pipe between his clenched teeth, the other with

140 THE OUTPOST

folded arms, smiling sadly. Each was afraid of
the other.

The embankment was growing slowly from
west to east. Before long thousands of carriages
would roll along its line with the speed of birds,
to enrich the powerful, shatter the poor, spread new
customs and manners, multiply crime ... all this
is called ' the advancement of civilization '. But
Slimak knew nothing of civilization and its boons,
and therefore looked upon this outcome of it as
ominous. The encroaching line seemed to him like
the tongue of some vast reptile, and the mounds of
earth to forebode four graves, his own and those
of his wife and children.

Maciek also had been watching its progress,
which he considered an entire revolution of the
laws of nature.

* It 's a monstrous thing ', he said, ' to heap up
so much sand on the fields near the river, and
narrow the bed ; when the Bialka swells, it will
overflow.'

Slimak saw that the ends of the embankment
were touching the river, but as they had been
strengthened by brick walls he took no alarm.
Nevertheless, it* struck him that the Hamers were
hurriedly throwing up dams on their fields in the
lower places.

' Quick folk ! ' he thought, and contemplated
doing the same, and strengthening the dams with
hurdles, as soon as he had cut the hay. It occurred
to him that he might do it now when he had
plenty of time, but, as usual, it remained a good
intention.

It was the beginning of July, when the hay had

THE OUTPOST 141

been cut and people were gradually preparing for
the harvest. Slimak had stacked his hay in the
backyard, but the Germans were still driving in
stakes and throwing up dams.

The summer of that year was remarkable for
great heat ; the bees swarmed, the corn was
ripening fast, the Bialka was shallower than usual,
and three of the workmen died of sunstroke.
Experienced farmers feared either prolonged rain
during the harvest or hail before long. One day
the storm came.

The morning had been hot and sultry, the birds
did not sing, the pigs refused to eat and hid in the
shade behind the farmbuildings ; the wind rose and
fell, it blew now hot and dry, now cool and damp.
By about ten o'clock a large part of the sky was
lined with heavy clouds, shading from ashen-grey
into iron-colour and perfect black ; at times this
sooty mass, seeking an outlet upon the earth, burst
asunder, revealing a sinister light through the
crevices. Then again the clouds lowered them-
selves and drowned the tops of the forest trees in
mists. But a hot wind soon drove them upwards
again and tore strips off them, so that they hung
ragged over the fields.

Suddenly a fiery cloud appeared behind the
village church ; it seemed to be flying at full
speed along the railway embankment, driven by
the west wind ; at the same time the north wind
sprang up and buffeted it from the side ; dust
flew up from the highroads and sandhills, and
the clouds began to growl.

When they heard the sound, the workmen left
their tools and barrows, and filed away in two long
detachments, one to the manor-house, the other

142 THE OUTPOST

to their huts. The peasants and settlers turned the
sand out of their carts with all speed and galloped
home. The cattle were driven in from the fields,
the women left their gardens ; every place became
deserted.

Thunderclap after thunderclap announced ever-
fresh legions pressing into the sky and obscuring
the sun. It seemed as if the earth were cowering
in their presence, as a partridge cowers before
the hovering hawk. The blackthorn and juniper
bushes called to caution with a low, swishing
noise ; the troubled dust hid in the corn, where the
young ears whispered to each other ; the distant
forests murmured.

High above, in the overcharged clouds, an evil
force, with strong desire to emulate the Creator,
was labouring. It took the limp element and
formed an island, but before it had time to sajr,
* It is good ', the wind had blown the island away.
It raised a gigantic mountain, but before the
summit had crowned it, the base had been blown
from underneath. Now it created a lion, now a
huge bird, but soon only torn wings and a shapeless
torso dissolved into darkness. Then, seeing that
the works fashioned by the eternal hands endured,
and that its own phantom creations could not
resist even the feeblest wind, the evil spirit was
seized with a great anger and determined to destroy
the earth.

It sent a flash into the river, then thundered,
' Strike those fields with hail ! drench the hill ! '
And the obedient clouds flung themselves down.
The wind whistled the reveille, the rain beat the
drum ; like hounds released from the leash the
clouds bounded forward , . downward, fol-

THE OUTPOST H3

lowing the direction to which the flashes of
lightning pointed. The evil spirit had put out
the sun.

After an hour's downpour the exhausted storm
calmed down, and now the roar of the Bialka could
be distinctly heard. It had broken down the banks,
flooded the highroad and fields with dirty water
and formed a Jake beyond the sandhills of the
railway embankment.

Soon, however, the storm had gathered fresh
strength, the darkness increased, lightning seemed
to flash from all parts of the horizon ; perpendi-
cular torrents of rain drowned the earth in sheets
of mist. The inmates of Slimak's cottage had
gathered in the front room ; Maciek sat yawning
on a corner of the bench, Magda, beside him,
nursed the baby, singing to it in a low voice ;
Slimakowa was vexed that the storm was putting
the fire out ; Slimak was looking out of the window,
thinking of his crops. Jendrek was the only cheer-
ful one ; he ran out from time to time, wetting
himself to the skin, and tried to induce his brother
or Magda to join him in these excursions.

' Come, Stasiek,' he cried, pulling him by the
hand, ' it 's such a warm rain, it will wash you and
cheer you up.'

' Leave him alone,' said his father ; ' he is
peevish.'

' And don't run out yourself,' added his mother.
' you are flooding the whole room. . . . The Word
was made Flesh,' she added under her breath,
as a terrific clap of thunder shook the house.
Magda crossed herself ; Jendrek laughed and cried,
* What a din ! there 's another. . . . The Lord Jesus
is enjoying Himself, firing off. , . .'

144 THE OUTPOST

'Be quiet, you silly,' called his mother; 'it may
strike you ! '

' Let it strike ! ' laughed the boy boldly. ' They'll
take me into the army and shoot at me, but
I don't mind ! ' He ran out again.

* The rascal ! he isn't afraid of anything,'
Slimakowa said to her husband with pride" in her
voice. Slimak shrugged his shoulders.

' He 's a true peasant.'

Yet among that group of people with iron
nerves there was one who felt all the terror of
this upheaval of the elements. How was it that
Stasiek, a peasant child, was so sensitive ?

Like the birds he had felt the coming storm, had
roamed about restlessly and watched the clouds,
fancying that they were taking council together,
and he guessed that their intentions were evil.
He felt the pain of the beaten-down grass and
shivered at the thought of the earth being chilled
under sheets of water. The electricity in the air
made his flesh tingle, the lightning dazzled him,
and each clap of thunder was like a blow on his
head. It was not that he was afraid of the storm,
but he suffered under it, and his suffering spirit
pondered, ' Why and whence do such terrible things
come ? '

He wandered from the room to the alcove,
from the alcove to the room, as if he had lost his
way, gazed absently out of the window and lay
down on the bench, feeling all the more miserable
because no one took any notice of him.

He wanted to talk to Maciek, but he was asleep ;
he tried Magda and found her absorbed in the baby ;
he was afraid of Jendrek's dragging him out of
doors if he spoke to him. At last he clung to his

THE OUTPOST 145

mother, but she was cross because of the fire and
pushed him away.

' A likely thing I should amuse you, when the
dinner is being spoilt ! ' He roamed about again,
then leant against his father's knee.

' Daddy,' he said in a low voice, ' why is the
storm so bad ? '

' Who knows ? '

' Is God doing it ? '

' It must be God.'

Stasiek began to feel a little more cheerful, but
his father happened to shift his position, and the
child thought he had been pushed away again.
He crept under the bench where Burek lay, and
although the dog was soaking wet, he pressed
close to him and laid his head on the faithful
creature.

Unluckily his mother caught sight of him.

' Whatever 's the matter with the boy ? ' she
cried. * Just you come away from there, or the
lightning will strike you ! Out into the passage,
Burek ! '

She looked for a piece of wood, and the dog
crept out with his tail between his legs. Stasiek
was left again to his restlessness, alone in a roomful
of people. Even his mother was now struck by his
miserable face and gave him a piece of bread to
comfort him. He bit off a mouthful, but could not
swallow it and burst into tears.

* Good gracious, Stasiek. what 's the matter ?
Are you frightened ? '

" No.'

' Then why are you so queer ? '

' It hurts me here,' he said, pointing to his chest.

Slimak, who was depressed himself, thinking of

146 THE OUTPOST

his harvest, drew him to his knee, saying : ' Don't
worry ! God may destroy our crop, but we won't
starve all the same. He is the smallest, and yet he
has more sense than the others,' he said, turning to
his wife; 'he's worrying about the gospodarstwo.'

Gradually, as the storm abated, the roar of the
river struck them afresh. Slimak quickly drew on
his boots.

' Where are you going ? ' asked his wife.

' Something 's wrong outside.'

He went and returned breathlessly.

' I say ! It 's just as I thought.'

' Is it the corn ? '

' No, that hasn't suffered much, but the dam is
broken.'

' Jesus ! Jesus ! '

' The water is up to our yard. Those scoundrel
Swabians have dammed up their fields, and that
has taken some more off the hill.'
-'Curse them!'

' Have you looked into the stable ? ' asked Maciek.

' Is it likely I shouldn't ? There 's water in the
stable, water in the cowshed, look ! even the
passage is flooded ; but the rain is stopping, we
must bale out.'

' And the hay ? '

e That will dry again if God gives fine weather.'

Soon the entire household were baling in the
bouse and farm-buildings ; the fire was burning
brightly, and the sun peeped out from behind the
clouds.

On the other bank of the river the Germans were
at work. Barelegged, and armed with long poles,
they waded carefully through the flooded fields
towards the river to catch the drifting logs.

THE OUTPOST 147

Stasiek was calming down : he was not tingling
all over now. From time to time he still fancied
he heard the thunder, and strained his ears, but
it was only the noise of the others baling with
wooden grain measures. There was much com-
motion in the passage where Jendrek pushed Magda
about instead of baling.

4 Steady there,' cried his mother, ' when I get
hold of something hard I'll beat you black and
blue ! '

But Jendrek laughed, for he could tell by a shade
in her voice that she was no longer cross.

Courage returned to Stasiek's heart. Supposing
he were to peep out into the yard . . . would there
still be a terrible black cloud ? Why not try ?
He put his head out of the back door and saw the
blue sky necked with little white clouds hurrying
eastwards. The cock was napping his wings and
crowing, heavy drops were sparkling on the
bushes, golden streaks of sunlight penetrated into
the passage, and bright reflections from the surface
of the waters beckoned to him.

He flew out joyfully through the pools of water,
delighting in the rainbow-coloured sheaves that
were spurting from under his feet ; he stood on
a plank and punted himself along with a stick,
pretending that he was sailing in deep water.

* Come, Jendrek ! ' he called.

' Stop here and go on baling,' called out Slima-
kowa.

The Germans were still busy landing wood ;
whenever they got hold of a specially large piece
they shouted * Hurrah ! ' Suddenly some big
logs came floating down, and this raised their
enthusiasm to such a pitch that they started sing-

148 THE OUTPOST

ing the ' Wacht am Rhein '. For the first time in
his life Stasiek, who was so sensitive to music,
heard a men's chorus sung in parts. It seemed to
melt into one with the bright sun ; both intoxicated
him ; he forgot where he was and what he was
doing, he stood petrified. Waves seemed to be
floating towards him from the river, embracing and
caressing him with invisible arms, drawing him
irresistibly. He wanted to turn towards the house
or call Jendrek, but he could only move forward,
slowly, as in a dream, then faster . . . faster ; he
ran, and disappeared down the hill.

The men were singing the third verse of the
' Wacht am Rhein ', when they suddenly stopped
and shouted :

* Help . . . help ! '

Slimak and Maciek had stopped in their work to
listen to the singing ; the sudden cries surprised
them, but it was the labourer who was seized with
apprehension.

* Run, gospodarz,' he said ; * something 's up.'

' Eh ! something they have taken into their
heads ! '

' Help ! ' the cry rose again.

' Never mind, run, gospodarz,' the man urged ;
' I can't keep up with you, and something . . .'

Slimak ran towards the river, and Maciek pain-
fully dragged himself after him. Jendrek overtook
him.

' What 's up ? Where is Stasiek ? '

Maciek stopped and heard a powerful voice
calling out :

' That 's the way you look after your children,
Polish beasts ! '

Then Slimak appeared on the hill, holding

THE OUTPOST 149

Stasiek in his arms. The boy's head was resting
on his shoulder, his right arm hung limply. Dirty
water was flowing from them both. Slimak's
lips were livid, his eyes wide open. Jendrek ran
towards him, slipped on the boggy hillside,
scrambled up and shouted in terror : ' Daddy . . .
Stasiek . . . what . . . '

' He 's drowned ! '

' You are mad,' cried the boy ; ' he 's sitting on
your arm ! '

He pulled Stasiek by the shirt, and the boy's
head fell over his father's shoulder.

4 You see ! ' whispered Slimak.

' But he was in the backyard a minute ago.'

Slimak did not answer, he supported Stasiek's
head and stumbled forward.

Slimakowa was standing in the passage, shading
her eyes and waiting.

* Well, what has he been up to now ? . . . What 's
this ? Has it fallen on Stasiek again ? Curse those
Swabians and their singing ! '

She went up to the boy and, taking his hand,
said in a trembling voice :

* Never mind, Stasiek, don't roll your eyes like
that, never mind ! Come to your senses, I won't
scold you. Magda. fetch some water.'

* He has had more than enough water,' murmured
Siimak.

The woman started back.

' What 's the matter with him ? Why is he so
wet ? '

* I have taken him out of the pool by the river.*
' That little pool ? '

' The water was only up to my waist, but it
did for him.'

150 THE OUTPOST

* Then why don't you turn him upside down ?
Maciek, take him bv the feet . . . oh, you clumsy
fellows ! '

The labourer did not stir. She seized the boy
herself by the legs.

Stasiek struck the ground heavily with his
hands ; a little blood ran from his nose.

Maciek took the child from her and carried him
into the cottage, where he laid him down on the
bench. They all followed him except Magda, who
ran aimlessly round the yard and then, with out-
stretched arms, on to the highroad, crying :
1 Help . . . help, if you believe in God ! ' She
returned to the cottage, but dared not go in,
crouched on the threshold with her head on her
knees, groaning : ' Help ... if you believe in God.'

Slimak dashed into the alcove, put on his suk-
mana and ran out, he did not know whither ;
he felt he must run somewhere.

A voice seemed to cry to him : ' Father . . .
father ... if you had put up a fence, your child
would not have been drowned ! '

And the man answered : * It is not my fault ;
the Germans bewitched him with their singing.'

A cart was heard rattling on the highroad and
stopped in front of the cottage. The schoolmaster
got out, bareheaded and with his rod in his hand.
* How is the boy ? ' he called out, but did not' wait
for an answer and limped into the cottage.

Stasiek was lying on the bench, his mother was
supporting his head on her knees and whispering
to herself : * He 's coming to. he 's a little warmer.'

The schoolmaster nudged Maciek : ' How is he ? '

' What do I know ? She says he 's better, but
the boy doesn't move, no, he doesn't move.'

THE OUTPOST 151

The schoolmaster went up to the boy and told
his mother to make room. She got up obediently
and watched the old man breathlessly, with open
mouth, sobbing now and then. Slimak peeped
through the open window from time to time, but
be was unable to bear the sight of his child's pale
face. The schoolmaster stripped the wet clothes
off the little body and slowly raised and lowered
his arms. There was silence while the others
watched him, until Slimakowa, unable to contain
herself any longer, pulled her hair down and then
struck her head against the wall.

' Oh, why were you ever born ? ' she moaned,
' a child of gold ! He recovered from all his
illnesses and now he is, drowned. . . . Merciful God !
why dost Thou punish me so ? Drowned like a
puppy in a muddy pool, and no one to help ! '

She sank down on her knees, while the school-
master persevered for half an hour, listening for
the beating of the child's heart from time to time,
but no sign of life appeared and, seeing that he
could do no more, he covered the child's body with
a cloth, silently said a prayer and went out.
Maciek followed him.

In the yard he came upon Slimak ; he looked like
a drunken man.

* What have you come here for, schoolmaster ? '
he choked. * Haven't you done us enough harm ?
You've killed my child with your singing ... do
you want to destroy his soul too as it is leaving him,
or do you mean to bring a curse on the rest of us ? '

' What is that you are saying ? ' said the school-
master in amazement.

The peasant stretched his arms and gasped for
breath.

152 THE OUTPOST

' Forgive me, sir,' lie said, ' I know you are
a good man. . . . God reward you,' he kissed his
hand ; ' but my Stasiek died through your fault
all the same : you bewitched him.'

' Man ! ' cried the schoolmaster, ' are we not
Christians like you ? Do we not put away Satan
and his deeds as you do ? '

* But how was it he got drowned ? '

' How do I know ? He may have slipped.'

* But the water was so shallow he might have
scrambled out, only your singing . . . that was the
second time it bewitched him so that something
fell on him . . . isn't it true, Maciek ? '

The labourer nodded.

* Did the boy have fits ? ' asked tne schoolmaster.
' Never.'

' And has he never been ill ? '

' Never.'

Maciek shook his head. ' He Js been ill since the
winter.'

' Eh ? ' asked Slimak.

£ I'm speaking the truth ; Stasiek has been ill
ever since he took a cold ; he couldn't run without
getting out of breath ; once I saw it fall upon him
while I was ploughing. I had to go and bring him
round.'

' Why did you never say anything about it ? '

' I did tell the gospodyni, but she told me
to mind my own business and not to talk like
a barber.'

' Well, you see,' said the schoolmaster, ' the boy
was suffering from a weak heart and that killed
him ; he would have died young in any case.'

Slimak listened eagerly, and his consciousness
seemed to return.

THE OUTPOST 153

' Could it be that ? ' he murmured. ' Did the
boy die a natural death ? '

He tapped at the window and the woman came
out, rubbing her swollen eyes.

* Why didn't you tell me that Stasiek had been
ill since the winter, and couldn't run without
feeling queer ? '

' Of course he wasn't well,' she said ; * but what
good could you have done ? '

* I couldn't have done anything, for if he was to
die, he was to die.'

The mother cried quietly.

* No, he couldn't escape ; if he was to die he was
to die ; he must have felt it coming to-day during
the storm, when he went about clinging to every one
... if only it had entered my head not to let him
out of my sight ... if I had only locked him up. . . .'

' If his hour had come, he would have died in the
cottage,' said the schoolmaster, departing.

Already resignation was entering into the hearts
of those who mourned for Stasiek. They comforted
each other, saying tl^at no hair falls from our heads
without God's will.

' Not even the wild beasts die unless it is God's
will,' said Slimak : c a hare may be shot at and
escape, and then die in the open field, so that you
can catch it with your hands.'

' Take my case,' said Maciek : ' the cait crushed
me and they took me to the hospital, and here I am
alive ; but when my hour has struck I shall die,
even if I were to hide under the altar. So it was
with Stasiek. . . .'

' My little one, my comfort ! ' sobbed the mother.

* Well, he wouldn't have been much comfort,' said
Slimak ; ' he couldn't have done heaw farm work.'

154 THE OUTPOST

' Oh, no ! ' put in Maciek.
e Or handled the beasts.'
' Oh, no ! '

* He would never have made a peasant ; he was
such a peculiar child, he didn't care for farm work ;
all he cared for was roaming about and gazing into
the river.'

* Yes, and he would talk to the grass and the
birds, I have heard it myself,' said Maciek,
' and many times have I thought : " Poor thing !
what will you do when you grow up ? You'd be
a queer fish even among gentlefolk, but what will
it be like for you among the peasants ? " '

In the evening Slimak carried Stasiek on to the
bed in the alcove ; his mother laid two copper coins
on his eyes and lit the candle in front of the
Madonna.

They put down straw in the room, but neither
of them could sleep ; Burek howled all night,
Magda was feverish ; Jendrek continually raised
himself from the straw, for he fancied his brother
had moved. But Stasiek did not move.

In the morning Slimak made a little coffin ;
carpentering came so easily to him that he could
not help smiling contentedly at his own work now
and then. But when he remembered what he was
doing, he was seized with such passionate grief that
he threw down his tools and ran out, he knew not
whither.

On the third day Maciek harnessed the horses to
the cart, and they drove to the village church,
Jendrek keeping close to the coffin and steadying
it, so that it should not rock. He even tapped, and
listened if his brother were not calling.

But Stasiek was silent. He was silent when they

THE OUTPOST 155

drove to the church, silent when the priest sprinkled
holy water on him, silent when they took him to
his grave and his father helped the gravedigger to
lower him, and when they threw clods of earth
upon him and left him alone for the first time.

Even Maciek burst into tears. Slimak hid his
face in his sukmana like a Roman senator and would
not let his grief be looked upon.

And a voice in his heart whispered : * Father !
father ! if you had made a fence, your child would
not have been drowned ! '

But he answered : * I am not guilty ; he died
because his hour had come.'

CHAPTER IX

AUTUMN came with drab, melancholy stubble-
fields ; the bushes in the ravines turned red ; the
storks hastily left the barns and flew south ; in
the few woods that remained, the birds were
silent, human beings had deserted the fields ; only
here and there some old German women in blue
petticoats were digging up the last potatoes. Even
the navvies had left, the embankment was finished,
and they had dispersed all over the world. Their
place was taken by a light railway bringing rails
and sleepers. At first you were only aware of
smoke in the distant west ; in a few days' time you
discovered a chimney, and presently found that
that chimney was fixed to a large cauldron which
rolled along without horses, dragging after it
a dozen wagons full of wood and iron. Whenever
it stopped men jumped out and laid down the wood,

156 THE OUTPOST

fastened the iron to it and drove off again. These
were the proceedings which Maciek was watching
daily.

' Look, how clever that is,' he said to Slimak ;
* they can get their load uphill without horses.
Why should we worry the beasts ? '

But when the cauldron came to a dead stop
where the embankment ended by the ravines and
the men had taken out and disposed of the load,
' Now, what will they do ? ' he thought.

To the farm labourer's utter astonishment the
cauldron gave a shrill whistle and moved back-
wards with its wagons.

Yes, there it was ! Had not the Galician har-
vesters told him of an engine that went by itself ?
Had they not drunk through his money with which
he was to buy boots ?

1 To be sure, they told me true, it goes by itself ;
but it creeps like old Sobieska,' he added, to
comfort himself. Yet, deep down in his heart he
was afraid of this new contrivance and felt that it
boded no good to the neighbourhood. And though
he reasoned inconsequently he was right, for with
the appearance of the railway engines there also
came much thieving. From pots and pans, drying
on the fences, to horses in the stables, nothing was
safe. The Germans had their bacon stolen from
the larder ; the gospodarz Marcinczak, who
returned rather tipsy from absolution, was
attacked by men with blackened faces and thrown
out of his cart, with which the robbers drove off at
breakneck speed. Even the poor tailor Niedoperz,
when crossing a wood, was relieved of the three
roubles he had earned with so much labour.

The railway brought Slimak no luck either. It

THE OUTPOST 157

became increasingly difficult to buy fodder for the
animals, and no one now asked him to sell his pro-
duce. The salted butter, and other produce of which
he had laid in a stock, went bad, and they had to
eat the fowls themselves. The Germans did all the
trading with the railway men, and even in the little
town no one looked at the peasant's produce.

So Slimak sat in his room and did no work.
Where should he find work ? He sat by the stove
and pondered. Would things continue like this ?
would there always be too little hay ? would no
one buy from him ? would there be no end to the
thieving ? What was not under lock and key in
the farm-buildings was no longer safe.

Meanwhile the Germans drove about for miles in
all directions and sold all that they produced.

' Things are going badly,5 said Slimakowa.

* Eh ... they'll get straight again somehow,' he
answered.

Gradually poor Stasiek was forgotten. Some-
times his mother laid one spoon too many, and
then wiped her eyes with her kerchief, sometimes
Magda thoughtlessly called Jendrek by his
brother's name or the dog would run round the
buildings looking for some one. and then lay down
barking, with his head on the ground. But all this
happened more and more rarely.

Jendrek had been restless since his brother's
death ; he did not like to sit indoors when there
was nothing to do, and roamed about. His
rambles frequently ended in a visit to the school-
master ; out of curiosity he examined the books,
and as he knew some of the letters, the school-
master's daughter amused herself by teaching him
to spell. The boy would purposely stumble over

158 THE OUTPOST

his words so that she should correct him and touch
his shoulder to point out the mistake.

One day he took home a book to show what he
had learnt, and his overjoyed mother sent the
schoolmaster's daughter a couple of fowls and
four dozen eggs. Slimak promised the school-
master five roubles when Jendrek would be able
to pray from a book and ten more when he should
have learnt to write. Jendrek was therefore more
and more often at the settlement, either busy with
his lessons or else watching the girl through the
window and listening to her voice. But this
happened to annoy one of the young Germans,
who was a relation of the Hamers.

Under ordinary circumstances Jendrek's be-
haviour would have attracted his parents7 atten-
tion, but they were entirely engrossed in another
subject. Every day convinced them more firmly
of the fact that they had too little fodder and a cow
too many. They did not say so to each other, but
no one in the house thought of anything else. The
gospodyni thought of it when she "saw the milk get
less in the pails, Magda had forebodings and caressed
the cows in turns, Maciek, when unobserved, even
deprived the horses of a handful of hay, and Slimak
would stand in front of the cowshed and sigh.

It was he himself who one night broke this tacit
understanding of silence on the sad question which
was becoming a crisis ; he suddenly awoke, sprang
up and sat down on the edge of the bed.

' What 's the matter, Josef ? ' asked his wife.

' Oh ... I was dreaming that we had no fodder
left and all the cows had died.'

4 In the name of the Father and the Son . . . may
you not have spoken that in an evil hour ! '

THE OUTPOST 159

' There is not enough fodder for five tails ... it 's
no good pretending/

1 Well, then, what will you do ? l

' How do I know ? '

' Perhaps one could . . .'

1 Maybe sell one of them . . .' finished the husband.

The word had fallen.

Next time Slimak went to the inn he gave Josel
a hint, who passed it on at once to two butchers
in the little town.

When they came to the cottage, Slimakowa
refused to speak to them and Magda began to cry.
Slimak took them to the yard.

' Well, how is it, gospodarz, you want to sell
a cow ? '

' How can I tell ? '

4 Which one is it ? Let 's see her.'

Slimak said nothing, and Maciek had to take up
the conversation.

* If one is to be sold, it may as well be Lysa.'

* Lead her out,' urged the butchers.

Maciek led the unfortunate cow into the yard ;
she seemed astonished at being taken out at such
an unusual hour.

The butchers looked her over, chattered in
Yiddish and asked the price.

' How do I know ? ' Slimak said, still irresolute.

' What 's the good of talking like that, you know
as well as we do that she 's an old beast. We will
give you fifteen roubles.'

Slimak relapsed into silence, and Maciek had
to do the bargaining ; after much shouting and
pulling about of the cow, they agreed on eighteen
roubles. A rope was laid on her horns and the
stick about her shoulders, and they started.

160 THE OUTPOST

The cow, scenting mischief, would not go ; first
she turned back to the cowshed and was dragged
towards the highroad, then she lowed so miserably
that Maciek went pale and Magda was heard to sob
loudly : the gospodyni would not look out of the
window.

The cow finally planted herself firmly on the
ground with her four feet rigidly fixed, and looked
at Slimak with rolling eyes as if to say : ' Look,
gospodarz, what they are doing to me . . . for six
years I have been with you and have honestly
done my duty, stand by me now.'

Slimak did not move, and the cow at last
allowed herself to be led away, but when she had
been plodding along for a little distance, he slowly
followed. He pressed the Jews' money in his hand
and thought :

* Ought I to have sold you ? I should never
have done it if the merciful God had not been
angry with us ; but we might all starve.'

He stood still, leant against the railings and
turned all his misfortunes over in his mind ; now
and then the thought that he might still run and
buy her back stole into his mind.

JBLe suddenly noticed that old Hamer had come
close up to him.

' Are you coming to see me, gospodarz ? ' he
asked.

* I'll come, if you will sell me fodder.'

* Fodder won't help you. A peasant among
settlers will always be at a disadvantage,' said the
old man, with his pipe between his teeth. ' Sell
me your land ; I'll give you a hundred roubles an
acre.'

Slimak shook his head. ' You are mad, Pan

THE OUTPOST 161

Hamer, I don't know what you mean. Isn't it
enough that I am obliged to sell the beast ? Now
you want me to sell everything. If you want me
to leave, carry me out into the churchyard. It is
nothing to you Germans to move from place to
place, you are a roving people and have no country,
but a peasant is like a stone by the wayside.
I know everything here by heart. I have moved
every clod of earth with my own hands ; now you
say : sell and go elsewhere. Wherever I went
I should be dazed and lost ; when I looked at
a bush I should say : that did not grow at home ;
the soil would be different and even the sun
would not set in the same place. And what should
I tell my father if he were to come looking for me
when it gets too hot for him in Purgatory ? He
would ask me how I was to- find his grave again*
and Stasiek's, poor Stasiek who has laid down his
head, thanks to you ! '

Hamer was trembling with rage.

' What rubbish the man is talking ! ' he cried,
£ have not numbers of peasants settled afresh in
Volhynia ? His father will come looking for him !
. . . You had better look out that you don't go
to Purgatory soon yourself for your obstinacy, and
ruin me into the bargain. You are ruining my
son now, because I can't build him a windmill.
Here I am offering you a hundred roubles an acre,
confound it all ! '

* Say what you like, but I won't sell you my land.'

' You'll sell it all right,' said Hamer, shaking
his fist, ' but I shan't buy it ; you won't last out
a year among us.*

He turned away abruptly.

' And I don't want that lad to stroll in and out

162 THE OUTPOST

of the settlement,' he called back, ' I don't keep
a schoolmaster here for you ! '

'That's nothing to me ; he needn't go if you
grudge him the room.'

' Yes, I grudge him the room,' the old man
retorted viciously, ' the father is- a dolt, let the son
be a dolt too.'

Slimak's regret for the cow was drowned in his
anger. ' All right, let them cut her throat,' he
thought, but remembering that the poor beast
could not help his quarrel with Hamer, he sighed.

There were fresh lamentations at home ; Magda
was blubbering because she had been given notice.
Slimak sat down on the bench and listened to his
wife comforting the girl.

e It 's true, we are not short of food,' she said,
' but how am I to get* the money for your wages ?
You are a big girl and ought to have a rise after
the New Year. We haven't enough work for you ;
go to your uncle at once, tell him how things are
going from bad to worse here, and fall at his feet
and ask him to find you another place. Please
God, you will come back to us.'

* Ho,' murmured Maciek from his corner, ' there 's
no returning ; when you're gone, you're gone ; first
the cow, then Magda, now my turn will come.'

* Oh, you, Maciek, you will stay,' said Slima-
kowa, 'there must be some one to look after the
horses, and if we don't give you your wages one
year, you'll get them the next, but we can't do
that to Magda, she is young.*

' That 's true,' said Maciek on reflection, *' and
it 's kind of you to think of the girl first.'

Slimak was silently admiring his wife's good
sense, but at the same time he felt acute regret

THE OUTPOST 163

and apprehension at all these changes ; everything
had been going on harmoniously for years, and
now one day sufficed to send both the cow and
Magda away.

' What shall I do ? ' he ruminated, ' shall I try
to set up as a carpenter, or shall I apply to his
Reverence for advice ? I might ask him at the
same time to say a Mass, but maybe he would say
the Mass and not give the advice. It will all come
right ; God strikes until His hand is tired ; then
He looks down in favour again on those who suffer
patiently.' So he waited.

Magda had found another situation by Novem-
ber ; her place in the gospodarstwo soon grew
cold, no one thought or talked of her, and only the
gospodyni asked herself sometimes : ' Were there
really a Stasiek in this room once and a Magda
pottering about, and three cows in the shed ? '

Meanwhile the thieving increased. Slimak daily
thought of putting bolts and padlocks on the farm-
buildings, or at least long poles in front of the
stable door. But whenever he reached for the
hatchet, it always lay too far off, or his arm was
too short ; anyhow he left it, and the thought of
buying padlocks when times were hard, made him
feel quite faint. He hid the money at the bottom of
the chest so that it should not tempt him. ' I must
wait till the spring,' he thought ; ' after all, there
are Maciek and Burek, they are sharp enough.'

Burek confirmed this opinion by much howling.

One very dark night, when sleet was falling,
Maciek heard him barking more furiously than
usual, and attacking some one in the direction of
the ravines. He jumped up and waked Slimak ;

164 THE OUTPOST

armed with hatchets they waited in the yard.
A heavy tread approached behind the barn as of
some one carrying a load. ' At them ! ' they
urged Burek, who, feeling himself backed up,
attacked furiously.

' Shall we go for them ? ' asked Maciek.

Slimak hesitated. * I don't know how many
there are.'

At that moment a light flashed up from the
settlement, horses clattered. Seeing that help was
approaching, Slimak dashed behind the barn and
called out : ' Hey there ! who are you ? '

Something heavy fell to the ground.

' You wait ! policeman for the Swabians, you
shall soon know who we are ! ' answered a voice
in the darkness.

' Catch him ! ' cried Slimak and Maciek simul-
taneously, but the thief had escaped to the ravines.
When the Germans on horseback came up, Slimak
lit a torch and ran behind the barn. A pig's
carcass lay in a puddle.

' That 's our hog,' cried Fritz. ' they stole it from
under our noses and while there was a light in the
house.'

' Daredevils ! ' muttered Maciek.

' To tell you the truth,' laughed Hamer's farm-
hand, ' we thought it was you who had done it.'

' Go to the devil ! '

' Let 's go after them,' Fritz interrupted quickly.

' Go on ! I ... steal your hog ! indeed ! '

' Let me go, father,' begged Jendrek.

* Go indoors ! We've saved them a hog and the
thieves will revenge themselves on us ; and here
they come and accuse me of being a thief myself.'
Fritz Hamer swore at the farm-hand for his clumsi-

THE OUTPOST 165

ness and tried to pacify the peasant, but he turned
his back on him. Fritz had lost his zeal for
pursuing the thieves, took up his hog and disap-
peared into the darkness.

After a few days the police-sergeant drove up,
cross-examined every one, explored the ravines,
perspired, made himself muddy, and found no one.
He came to the very just conclusion that the
thieves must have escaped long ago. So he told
Slimakowa to put some butter and a speckled hen
into his cart and returned home.

The thieving stopped for a while, and winter
came on. The ground was warmly covered as with
a sheepskin ; ice as hard as flint froze on the Bialka,
the Lord wrapped the branches of the trees securely
in shirts of snow. But Slimak was still meditating
on hasps and bolts.

One evening, as he sat filling the room with
smoke from his pipe, shifting his feet and arriving
at the second part of his meditations, namely
that ' What is done too soon is the devil's,' Jendrek
excitedly burst into the room. His mother was
busy with the fire and paid no attention to him,
but his father noticed, although they were sparing
of light in the cottage, that his sukinana was torn
and he looked bruised and dishevelled. Looking
at him out of the corner of his eyes, Slimak
emptied his pipe and said : * Some one has been
boxing your ears three times over.'

' I gave him one better,' said the boy scowling.

As the mother had gone out and did not hear
the conversation, the father did not hurry himself ;
he cleaned his choked pipe, blew through it and
indifferently inquired, ' Who 's been treating you
like this ? '

166 THE OUTPOST

' That scoundrel, Hermann.' The boy was
hitching up his shoulders as if he had been stung.

' And what were you doing at Hamer's when you
had been told not to go there ? '

' I was looking at the schoolmaster through the
window,' said Jendrek blushing, and added quickly,
' That German dog ran out from the kitchen and
shouted: " You are spying about here, you thief ! "
" What have I stolen ? " I say, and he : " Nothing-
yet, but you will steal some day ; be off, or I'll box
your ears." " Try ! " I say. " I've tried before,"
says he ; " take this ! "

* That was smart of the Swabian,' said Slimak,
' and did you do nothing to him ? '

' Why should I do nothing to him ? I snatched
up a log and hit him over the head two or three
times, but the coward started bleeding and gave in ;
I should have liked to have given him more, but
they came running out of their houses and I
made off.'

' So they didn't catch you ? '

' Bah, how can they catch me, when I run like
a hare ? '

* Confound the boy,' said his mother, who had
come in, ' the Swabians will beat him small.'

' He can always give them the slip,' said Slimak,
lit his pipe^ and resumed his meditations on hasps
and bolts.

But these were interrupted the next afternoon
by a visit from the Hamers ; their cousin, Her-
mann, had his head so tightly bandaged that hardly
anything was visible of his face. They stood out-
side the gate and shouted to Maciek to call his
master. Slimak hastily fastened his belt and
stepped out. ' What do you want ? ' he said.

THE OUTPOST 167

' We are going to the police-station to take out
a summons against that Jendrek of yours ; look
what he has done to Hermann ; we have a cer-
tificate from the surgeon that his injuries are
serious.'

' He came ogling the schoolmaster's daughter,
now he shall ogle his prison bars,' Hermann added
thickly behind his bandages.

Slimak was getting worried.

' You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,' he
said. ' to take out a summons for a bit of boy's
nonsense ; didn't Hermann box his ears too ?
But we don't take out summonses for that sort of
thing.'

' Oh, rather ! I gave it him,' mumbled Hermann,
' but where 's the blood ? where 's the doctor's
certificate ? '

' You're a nice one,' said Slimak bitterly, ' there-
was no policeman to certify that it was we who
saved you the hog, but when a boy plays a prank
on you, you go to law.'

' Perhaps with you a hog means as much as
a man,' sneered Fritz ; * with us it is different.'

Slimak's meditations now turned fiom bolts and
padlocks to prisons. He talked the matter over
with Maciek.

' When they put our small Jendrek in Court by
the side of that big Hermann, I reckon they won't
do much to him.'

' They'll do nothing to him,' agreed the labourer.

' All the same, I should like to know what the
punishment is for thrashing a man.'

' They don't trouble their heads much about it.
When Potocka beat her neighbour over the head
with a saucepan, they just fined her.'

168 THE OUTPOST

' That 's true, but I am afraid they think more

of the Germans than of our people.'

' How could they think more of unbelievers ? '
' Look at the police-sergeant, he talks to Hamer

as he wouldn't even talk to Gryb.'

* That is so, but when he has looked round to see
that no one is listening, he tells you that a German
is a mangy dog. You see, the Germans have their
Kaiser, but he 's nothing like as great as our Czar ;
I have it from a soldier who was in the hospital,
and he used to say : " Bah, he 's nothing compared
to ours ! "

This greatly reassured Slimak, and he went to
church with his wife and son the next Sunday
to find out what others, familiar with the ways
of the law, thought of the matter. Maciek re-
mained at home to look after the dinner and the
baby.

It was past noon when Burek began to bark
furiously. Maciek looked out and saw a man
dressed like the townspeople standing at the gate ;
he had pulled his cap well over his face. The farm-
labourer went outside.

1 What 's up ? '

' Take pity on us, gospodarz,' said the stranger,
4 our sledge has broken down close by, and I can't
mend it, because they have stolen the hatchet out
of my basket last night.'

Maciek looked doubtful. ' Have you come far ? '

* Twenty -five miles ; my wife and I are driving
twelve miles further. I will give you good vodka
and sausages if you will help us.'

Maciek's suspicions lessened when vodka was
mentioned. He shook his head and crossed him-
self, but ultimately decided that one must help

THE OUTPOST 169

one's neighbour, fetched the hatchet and went out
with the stranger.

He found a one-horse sledge standing near the
farm. A woman, even more smartly dressed than
the man, sat huddled up in a corner ; she blessed
Maciek in a tearful voice, but her husband did
more, he poured out a large tumblerful of vodka
and offered it to the labourer, drinking to his
health first. Maciek apologized, as the ceremony
demanded, then took a long pull, till the tears
came into his eyes. He set about mending the
sledge, and although it was a small job and did not
take him more than half an hour, the strangers
thanked him extravagantly, the woman gave him
half a sausage and some roast pork, and the man
exclaimed : * I have travelled far and wide, but
I have never found a more obliging peasant than
you are, brother. I should like to leave you
a remembrance. Have you got a bottle ? '

' I think I could find one,' said Maciek, in a voice
trembling with delight. The man unce, emoniously
pushed his wife on one side and drew a j arge bottle
from underneath the seat.

* We are off now,' he said, ' we will go to the
gospodarstwo and you shall give me some nails in
case of another breakdown, and I will leave you
some of this cordial in return. Mind, if your head
or your stomach aches or you are worried and can't
sleep, take a glassful of this : all your worries will
at once disappear. Take good care of it and don't
on any account give a drop away, it 's a speciality ;
my grandfather got it from the monks at Rade-
cznica, it 's as good as holy water.'

Maciek went into the house, the stranger
remained in the yard, looking carelessly round the
G 3

170 THE OUTPOST

buildings, while Burek barked madly at him. At
any other time the dog's anger would have roused
Maciek's suspicion, but how could one think any-
thing but well of a guest who had already given
vodka and sausages and who was offering more
drink ? He smilingly offered a big-bellied bottle to
the traveller,- who poured half a pint of the cordial
into it, and when he took leave he repeated the
warning that it should be used only in case of need.

Maciek stuffed a piece of rag into the neck of the
bottle and hid it in the stable. He felt a strong de-
sire to taste the drink, if only a drop, but he resisted.

1 Supposing I were to get ill ... better keep it.'

He rocked the baby to sleep and then woke her
up again to tell her about the hospital and his
broken leg, about the travellers who had left him
such a magnificent present, but nothing could take
his thoughts away from the monks' cordial. The
big-bellied bottle seemed to hover over the pots
and pans on the stove, it blossomed out of the wall,
it almost tapped at the window, but Maciek blinked
his eyes and thought : ' Leave me alone, you will
come in useful some day ! '

Shortly before sunset he heard cheerful singing
in the road, and. quickly stepping outside, he saw
the gospodarz and his family returning from
church. They were silhouetted against the red
sky in the white landscape. Jendrek, his head in
the air and his arms crossed behind his back, was
walking on the left side of the road, the gospodyni
in her blue Sunday skirt, and her jacket unbut-
toned, so that her white chemise and bare chest
were showing, on the right. The gospodarz, his
cap awry, and holding up his sukmana as for
a dance, lurched from right to left and from left to

THE OUTPOST 171

right, singing. The labourer laughed, not because
they were drunk, but because it pleased him to see
them enjoying themselves.

' Do you know, Maciek,' cried Slimak from
afar, ' do you know the Swabians can't hurt us ! '

He ran up full tilt and supported himself on
Maciek's neck.

' Do you know,' cried the gospodyni, coming
up, ' we have seen Jasiek Gryb who knows all about
the law; we told him about Jendrek's .giving it
to Hermann, and he swore by a happy death that
the Court would let Jendrek off ; Jasiek has been
tried for these tricks himself, he knows.'

' Let them try and put me in prison ! ' shouted
Jendrek.

It was in this frame of mind that they sat down,
but somehow the dinner was not a success. Slima-
kowa poured most of the sauerkraut over the table,
the gospodarz had no appetite, and Jendrek had
forgotten how to hold a spoon, scalded his father's
foot with soup and finally fell asleep. His parents
followed his example, so Maciek was left to himself
again. The big-bellied bottle started pursuing
him immediately. It availed nothing that he
busied himself with the fire and the wick of the
flickering lamp. The snoring around him disposed
him to sleep and the smell of vodka that had been
introduced into the room filled him with longing.
In vain he tried to keep off the thoughts that
circled like moths round the light. When he forgot
his misery at the hospital, he thought of the forlorn-
ness of the abandoned baby, and when he put that
aside his own needs overwhelmed him again. ' It 's
no use,' he muttered. ' I must go to bed.'

He wrapped the child in the sheepskin and

172 THE OUTPOST

went into the stable. He lay down on the straw,
the warmth of the horses tempered the cold, and
Maciek closed his eyes, but sleep would not come ;
it was too early yet.

As he turned from side to side, his hand came in
contact with the bottle ; he pushed it away ; but,
violating the law of inertia, it thrust itself irresis-
tibly into his hand ; the rag remained between his
fingers, and when he mechanically lifted it to his
eyes in the half-light, the strange vessel leapt to
his lips of its own accord. Before he was conscious
of what he was doing, Maciek had pulled a long
draft of the health -giving speciality. He gulped it
down and pulled a wry face. The drink was not
only strong, it was nauseous ; it simply tasted
like ordinary medicine. ' Well, that wasn't worth
longing for ! ' he thought, as he stuffed up the neck
of the bottle again. He resolved to be more tem-
perate in future with a liquor which was not
distinguished for a good taste.

Maciek said a prayer and felt warm and calm.
He remembered the home-coming of the gospo-
darz's family : they all stood before his eyes as if
they were alive. Suddenly Slimak and Jendrek
vanished and only Slimakowa remained near him
in her unbuttoned jacket which exposed rows of
corals and her bare white chest. He closed his
eyelids and pressed them with his fingers, so as not
to look, but still he saw her, smiling at him in
a strange way. He hid his head in the sheepskin —
it was in vain ; the woman stood there and smiled in
a way that sent the fever through his veins. His
heart beat violently ; he turned his head to the
wall and, terror-stricken, heard her voice whisper-
ing close to him : ' Move up ! '

THE OUTPOST 173

4 Where am I to move to ? ' groaned Maciek.

A warm hand seemed to embrace his neck.

Then his mattress began to ascend with him, he
flew . . . flew. God ! was he falling or being lifted
into the air ? he felt as light as a feather, as smoke.
He opened his eyes for a moment and saw stars
glittering in a dark sky over a snowy landscape.
How could he be seeing the sky ? No*. . . he must
have made a mistake ; darkness was surrounding
him again. He wanted to move, but could not ;
besides, why should he move, when he felt so extra-
ordinarily comfortable ? there was not a thing in
the world that it would be worth while moving a
finger for, nothing but sleep mattered, sleep without
awakening. He sighed heavily and slept and slept.

A sensation of pain woke Maciek from a dream-
less sleep which must have lasted about ten hours.
He felt himself violently shaken, kicked in the
ribs and on the head, tugged by his arms and legs.

* Get up, you thief . . . get up ! ' a voice was
shouting at him.

He tried to get up, but turned over on the otner
side instead. The blows and tugs recommenced,
and the voice, choked with rage, continued :

* Get up ! I wish the holy earth had never
carried you ! '

At last Maciek roused himself and sat up ; the
light hurt his eyes, his head felt heavy like a rock ;
so he closed his eyes again, supported* his head and
tried to think ; immediately he received a blow
in the face from a fist. When at last he opened his
eyes, he saw that it was Slimak who was standing
over him, mad with rage.

' What are you hitting me for ? ' he asked in
amazement.

174 THE OUTPOST

* Where are the horses, you thief ? ' shouted
Slimak.

' Horses ? what horses ? '

He was suddenly seized with sickness. Coming
to himself a little, he looked round. Yes, some-
thing seemed to be missing from the stable ; he
wiped his forehead, looked again . . . the stable was
empty.

1 But where are the horses ? ' he asked.

4 Where ? ' cried Slimak, * where your brothers
have taken them, you thief.' The labourer held
out his hands.

' I never took them out. I haven't stirred from
here all night, something must have happened . . .
I am ill.'

He staggered up and had to support himself.

' What is that ? You are trying to make out
that you have lost your wits. You know quite well
that the horses have been stolen. Whoever stole
them must have opened the door and led them over
you.'

' God help me ! no one opened the door, no one
led them over me,' cried Maciek, bursting into sobs.

' Dad ! Burek is lying dead behind the fence,'
cried Jendrek, who came running up with his
mother.

' They have poisoned him,' said the woman,
' the foam has frozen on his mouth.'

Maciek sank down in the open door, unable to
stand any longer.

' The devil has got him too, he isn't like himself,
something has fallen on him,' said Slimak.

' And may he keep it till he dies,' cried the
woman, ' here he is sleeping in the stable and lets
the horses be stolen. May the ground spit him out ! J

THE OUTPOST 175

Jendrek was looking for a stone, but his parents,
taking notice of the man's deathly pallor and his
sunken eyes for the first time, restrained him.

' Maybe they have poisoned him too,' whispered
Slimakowa.

Slimak shrugged his shoulders, not knowing
what to make of it.

He began to question Maciek : Had anything
happened in his absence ?

Slowly and with difficulty, but concealing
nothing, Maciek told his story.

' Of course they gave me some filthy stuff, and
then they made off with the horses,' he added,
sobbing.

But instead of taking pity on him, Slimak burst
out afresh :

' What ? you took drink from strangers and
never told me anything about it ? '

4 Why should I have bothered you, gospodarz,
when you were a little bit screwed yourself ? '

1 What 's that to do with you ? ' bawled Slimak,
* dogs have no right to notice whether one is drunk
or not, they have to be all the more watchful when
one is ! You are a thief like the others, only you
are worse. I took you in when you were starving,
and you've robbed me in return.'

' Don't talk like that,' groaned Maciek, crawling
to Slimak's feet, ' I have saved a few roubles from
my wages, and there is my little chest and a bit
of sheepskin and my sukmana ; take it all, but
don't say I robbed you. Your dog has not been
more faithful, and they have poisoned him too.'

' Don't bother me,' cried Slimak, thrusting him
aside, ' the fellow offers me his wages and his box
when the horses were worth twenty-eigh£ roubles.

176 THE OUTPOST

•

I haven't taken twenty-eight roubles the whole
year. If you were my own son I wouldn't let you
ofi ; neither of the boys have ever cost me as much.'

His anger overcame him, he beat himself with
his clenched fists.

' Find the horses/ he cried, ' or I will give you
in charge, go where you like, look where you like,
but don't show your face here without them or one
of us will die ! I loathe you. Take that bastard
or we will let it starve, and be off ! '

' I will find the horses,' said Maciek, and drew
his old sheepskin round him with trembling hands ;
' perhaps God will help me.'

' The devil will help you, you low scoundrel/
said Slimak, and turned away.

' And leave your box/ added Jendrek.

' He has paid us out for our kindness/ whim-
pered Slimakowa, wiping her eyes. They went into
the house.

Not one of them had a kind glance to spare for
Maciek, although he was leaving them for ever.

Slowly and painfully he wrapped the child up
in an old bit of a shirt and a shawl, fastened his
belt round himself and looked for a stick.

His head was aching as if he were going through
a severe illness ; he was unable to reason out the
situation. He felt no resentment towards Slimak
for having beaten him and driven him away ; the
gospodarz was in the right, of course ; neither was
he afraid of having no roof over his head ; people
like him never had any roof of their own ; he was
not thinking of the future. Another thought was
torturing him . . . the horses. For Slimak the
horses were part of his working machinery, for
Maciek they were friends and brothers. Who but

THE OUTPOST 177

they in the whole world had longed for him, had
greeted him heartily when he returned, or looked
after him when he went out ? No one but Wojtek
and Kasztan. For years they had shared hardships
together. Now they were gone, perhaps led away
into misery, through his, Maciek's, fault.

He fancied he heard them neighing. They were
becoming sensible of what was happening to them
and were calling to him for help !

' I am coming, I am coming,' he muttered, took
the child on his arm, seized the stick and limped
forth. He did not look round, he would see the
gospodarstwo again when he came back with the
horses.

He saw Burek lying stark behind the barn, but
he had no thought to spare for him ; he peered for
the traces of the horses' feet. There they were,
stamped into the snow as into wax ; Kasztan's
large feet and the broken hoof of Wojtek ; here
the thieves had mounted and ridden off at a slow
trot. How bold, how sure of themselves they had
been ! But Maciek will find you ! The peasant
rancour in him had been awakened. If you escape
to the end of the world he will pursue you ; if you
dig yourselves into the ground he will dig you out
with his hands ; if you escape to Heaven he will
stand at the gate and importune the saints until
they fly all over the universe and give him back
the horses !

On the highroad the tracks became less distinct,
but they were still recognizable. Maciek could
read the whole history of the peregrination in
them. Here Kasztan had been startled and had
shied ; here the thief had dismounted and altered
Wojtek's bridle. What gentlemen they were.

178 THE OUTPOST

these thieves, they came stealing in new boots,
such as no gentleman need have been ashamed of !

Near the church the tracks became confused and,
what was worse, divided. Kasztan had been
ridden to the right and Wojtek to the left. After
reflecting for a moment, Maciek followed the latter
track, possibly because it was clearer, but most
likely because he loved that little horse the best.
About noon he found himself near the village where
Magda's uncle, the Soltys Grochowski, lived. He
turned in there, hoping for a bite of food ; he was
hungry and the little girl was crying.

Grochowski was at home and in the middle of
receiving a sound rating from his wife for no
particular reason but just for the pleasure of it.
The huge man was sitting on the bench by the wall,
with one arm on the table and the other on the
window-sill, listening with an expression of fixed
attention to his wife's homilies ; this attention was,
however, assumed, for whenever she buried her
head among the pots and pans on the stove he
yawned and stretched himself, pulling a face as
if the conversation had long been distasteful
to him.

As his wife was in the habit of relenting
before strangers, so as not to prejudice his office,
Grochowski hailed Maciek's arrival gladly, and
ordered food for him and milk for the little girl,
adding cold meat and vodka to the repast when he
heard the news that Slimak's horses had been stolen
and that Maciek was applying to him for advice.
He even talked of drawing up a statement, but the
necessary implements were not at hand. So he
drew Maciek into the alcove for a long, whispered
conversation, the upshot of which was that they

THE OUTPOST 179

must proceed with caution upon the track of the
thieves, as certain strong influences tied Grochow-
ski's hands until he had clearer evidence. Maciek
was also given to understand why Jasiek Gryb
had entertained the gospodarz and his family so
liberally, and Grochowski even seemed to know
the man who had presented Maciek with the monks'
cordial and said that the woman in the sledge was
not a woman at all.

' I will do whatever you tell me, Soltys,' said
Maciek, embracing his knees, ' even if you should
send me to my death.'

' It is no use tracking near here,' said the Soltys,
' we know all about that, but it would be useful to
know where the other track leads to. Follow that
as far as you can, and if you find any clue let me
know at once. You ought to be back here by
to-morrow.'

' And shall we find the horses ? '

' We shall find them even if we had to drag them
out of the thieves' bowels,' said the Soltys, looking
fierce.

It was about two o'clock when Maciek was ready
to start. The Soltys hinted that the child had
better be left behind, but his wife was so angry at
the suggestion that he desisted. So Maciek tied
her up again in the old bits of clothing and went
his way.

He easily found Kasztan's tracks on the highroad
and followed them for an hour, when he thought
that he must be nearing the thieves' quarters, for
the tracks had been covered up, and finally led into
the ravines. The frost was pinching harder and
harder, but the breathless man scarcely noticed
the cold. From time to time clouds flew over the

180 THE OUTPOST

sky and snow drifted along the ground in gusts ;
Maciek searched all the more eagerly, so as not to
miss the track before it should be covered with
fresh drifts. On and on he walked, never even
noticing that darkness was coming on and the snow
was falling faster.

Now and then he would sit down for a moment,
too tired to go on, but he jumped up again, for he
fancied he heard Kasztan neighing. Probably it
was his aching head that produced these sounds,
but at last they became so loud that he left the
track and cut right across the hill in the direction
from which they seemed to proceed. With his last
remaining strength he struggled with the bushes,
fell, scrambled to his feet, and continued. Then
the neighing ceased and he found that he was in the
ravines, knee-deep in snow, and night was falling.

With difficulty he dragged himself on to a knoll
to see where he was. He could see nothing but
snow — snow to the right and to the left, here and
there intercepted by bushes, the last streak of light
had faded from the sky.

He tried to descend ; in one place the slope was
too steep, in another there were too many bushes ;
at last he decided on an easier place and put his
stick forward ; it gave way, and he fell after it for
several yards. It was fortunate that the snow lay
waist-deep in this spot.

The frightened child began its low sobbing, it
had always been too weak to cry heartily. Fea'r
was knocking at Maciek's heart.

' Surely, I can't have lost my way ? ' he thought,
' these are our ravines that I know so well, yet
I don't see my way out of them.'

He started walking again, alternately in low and

THE OUTPOST 181

deep snow, until he came upon a place that had been
trodden down recently. He knelt down and felt the
tracks with his hands. They were his own footprints.

* Dear me ! I've been going round in a circle,'
he muttered, and tried another corridor of ravines
which presently led him to the place where he had
slid down the hill. He fancied he heard murmur-
ings overhead and looked up, but it was only the
rustling of the bushes. The wind had sprung up on
the hillside and was driving before it clouds of fine
snow which stung his face and hands like gnats.

' Can it be that my hour has come ? ' he
thought ; ' No, no,' he whispered, ' not till I have
found the horses, else they will take me for a thief.'
He wrapped the child more closelyin the coverings ;
she had fallen asleep in spite of shaking and dis-
comfort ; he walked about aimlessly, so as to keep
moving.

' I won't be a fool and sit down,' he muttered,
c if I sit down I shall be frozen, and the thieves will
keep the horses.'

The hard snow fell faster and faster, whitening
Maciek from head to foot ; the wind swept along
the top of the hills, and as he listened to it, the man
was glad that he had not been caught in the open.

' It 's quite warm here/ he said, ' but all the
same I'm not going to sit down, I must keep on
walking till the morning.'

But it was not yet midnight and Maciek's legs
began to refuse obedience, he could no longer push
away the snow with his feet ; he stopped and
stamped, but that was even more tiring ; he leant
against the sides of the little cavity. The spot was
excellent ; it was raised above the ravine, and the
little hollow was just large enough to hold a man ;

182 THE OUTPOST

bushes sheltered it against the snow on all sides.
But the crowning advantage was a jutting piece
of rock, about the size of a stool.

' No, I won't sit down,' he determined, ' I know
I should get frozen. ... It 's true,' he added after
a while, ' it would not do to go to sleep, but it can't
hurt to sit down for a bit.'

He boldly sat down, drew his cap over his ears and
the clothes round the sleeping child, and decided
that he would alternately rest and stamp, and so
await the morning.

' So long as I vdon't go to sleep,' he kept on
reminding himself. He fancied the air was getting
a little warmer and his feet were thawing. Instead
of the cold he felt ants creeping under the soles of
his feet. They crept in among his toes, swarmed
over his injured leg, then over the other, and
reached his knees. In a mysterious way one had
suddenly settled on his nose ; he wanted to flick
it off, but a whole swarm was sitting on his arms.
He decided not to drive them away, for in the first
place they were keeping him awake, and then he
rather liked them. He smiled, as one reached his
waist, and did not ask how they came to be there.
It was not surprising that there should be ant-hills
in the ravines, and he forgot that it was winter.

' So long as I don't go to sleep ... so long as I
don't go to sleep. . . .' But at last he asked himself
1 Why am I not to go to sleep ? It 's night and
I am in the stable ? The thieves might be coming,
that 's it ! '

He grasped his stick more firmly ; whispers
seemed to be stirring all round.

' Oho ! they are opening the stable door, there is
the snow, this time I will give it to them. . . .'

THE OUTPOST 183

The thieves must have found out that he was on
the watch this time and made off. Maciek laughed ;
now he could go to sleep. He straightened his
back, pressed the little girl close.

' Just a moment's sleep,' he reminded himself,
' I've something to do, but what is it ? Ploughing ?
no, that 's done. Water the horses . . . the
horses. . . .'

After midnight the moon dispersed the clouds
and the new moon peeped out and looked straight
into the sleeper's face : but the man did not move.
Fresh clouds came up and hid the moon, yet he
did not move. He sat in the hollow of the hill, his
head leaning against its side, the child clasped to
his breast.

At last the sun rose, but even then he did not
move. He seemed to be gazing in astonishment at
the railway line, not more than twenty steps away
from his resting place.

The sun was high when a signalman came along
the permanent way. He caught sight of the
sleeper and shouted, but there was no answer, and
the man approached.

' Heh, father ! have you been drinking ? ' he
called out, as he went round the hollow at a dis-
tance. At last, hardly believing his eyes, he went
up to the silent sitter and touched his hand.

Maciek's and the child's faces were hard, as if
they had been cast in wax, hoarfrost lay on his
lashes, and frozen moisture stood on the child's
lips. The signalman's arms dropped in astonish-
ment ; he wanted to call for help, but remembered
that no one would hear him. He turned and ran
at full speed to the Soltys' office.

In the course of an hour or two a sledge with

184 THE OUTPOST

some men arrived to remove the bodies. But
Maciek's was frozen so hard that it was impossible
to open his arms or straighten his legs, so they put
him in the sledge as he was. He went for his last
drive with the child on his knees, his head resting
against the rail, and his face turned upwards, as
though he had done with human reckoning and was
recounting his wrongs to his Creator.

When the mournful procession stopped, a small
crowd of peasants, women, and Jews gathered in
front of the Wojt's office. The Wojt, his clerk, and
Grochowski were standing together. A shudder
of remorse seized the latter, he guessed who the
man and child were that had been found, frozen to
death. He explained to the crowd what Maciek
had told him.

When he had finished, the men turned away, the
women groaned, the Jews spat on the ground ;
only Jasiek, the son of the rich peasant Gryb,
lighted an expensive cigar and smiled. He put his
hands in the pockets of his sheepskin coat, stuck
out first one foot, then the other, to display his
elegant top-boots that reached above his knees,
sucked his cigar, and continued to smile. The men
looked at him with aversion, but the women,
although shocked, did not think him repulsive.
Was he not a tall, broadshouldered, graceful lad,
with a complexion like rnilk and blood, and eyes the
colour of a bluebottle, and did he not trim his
moustaches and beard like a nobleman ? It was
a pity he was not a foreman with plenty of oppor-
tunities of ordering the girls about ! The men,
however, were whispering among themselves that
he was a scoundrel who would come to a bad end.

' Certainly it was wrong of Slimak to send the

THE OUTPOST 185

•

poor wretch away in such weather,' said the
Wojt.

' It was a shame,' murmured the women.

' It 's only natural he should be angry when his
horses had been stolen,' said one of the men.

'Driving him away did not bring the horses
back, and he will have the two poor souls on his
conscience till he dies,' cried an old woman.

Grochowski was seized with shuddering again.

1 It was not so much that Slimak drove him
away, but that he himself was anxious to go,' he
said quickly, * he wanted to track the thieves ; '
here he gave a quick glance at Jasiek, who returned
it insolently, and observed that horse-thieves were
sharp, and more people might meet their death in
tracking them.

' They may find that there is a limit to it,' said
Grochowski.

The policeman now proceeded to examine the
corpses, and the Wojt was standing by with a wry
face, as if he had bitten on a peppercorn.

' We must drive them to the district police-
court,' he said ; ' Stojka,' turning to the owner of
the sledge, ' drive on, we will overtake you
presently. This is the first time that any one in
this parish has ever been frozen to death.'

Stojka demurred and scratched his head, but he
took up the reins and lashed the horses ; after all.
it was only a few versts, and one need not look
much at the passengers. He walked by the side
of the sledge and Grochowski and a man who was to
make closer acquaintance with the police-court, for
spoiling his neighbour's bucket, went with him.

It so happened that, just as the Wojt was
dispatching the bodies to the police-court, the

186 THE OUTPOST

police officer was sending ' Silly Zoska ' back to her
native village. A few months after leaving her
child in Maciek's care she had been arrested ; the
reason was unknown to her. As a matter of fact
she had been accused of begging, vagrancy, and
attempted arson. After the discovery of each new
crime, they had taken her from police-station to
prison, from prison to infirmary, from infirmary
to another prison, and so on for a whole year.

During her peregrinations Zoska had behaved
with complete indifference ; when she was taken
to a new place she would worry at first whether
she would find work. After that she became
apathetic and slept the greater part of the time, on
her plank bed, or waiting in corridors and prison-
yards. It was all the same to her. At times she
began to long for freedom and her child, and then
she fell into accesses of fury. Now they were
'sending her back under escort of two peasants ;
one carried the papers relating to her case, and the
other had come to keep him company. She had
a boot on one foot and a sandal on the other,
a sukmana in holes, and a handkerchief like a sieve
on her head. She walked quickly in front of the
men, as if she were in a hurry to get back, yet
neither the familiar neighbourhood nor the hard
frost seemed to make any impression on her.
When the men called out : ' Heh ! not so fast ! '
she stood as still as a post, and waited till they
told her to go on.

* She 's quite daft ! ' said one.

* She 's always been like* that,' said the other,
who had known her a long time, * yet she 's not
bad at rough work.'

A few versts from the village, where the chimneys

THE OUTPOST 187

peeped out from beyond the snowy hills, they
came upon the little cortege. The attendants,
noticing something unusual in the look of it,
stopped and talked to the Soltys.

' Look, Zoska,' said the latter to the woman who
was standing by indifferently, ' that is your little
girl.'

She approached without seeming to understand ;
slowly, however, her face acquired a human
expression.

* What 's fallen upon them ? '

* They have been frozen.'

' Why have they been frozen ? '

' Slimak drove them out of the house.'

' Slimak drove them out of the house ? ' she
repeated, fingering the bodies, ' yes, that 's my
little girl, she 's grown a bit ; whoever heard of
a child being frozen to death ? . . . she was meant
to come to a bad end. As God loves me, yes, that 's
my girl, my little girl — they've murdered her ;
look at her ! ' she suddenly became animated.

' Drive on,' said the Soltys, ' we must be
getting on.'

The horses started, Zoska tried to get into the
sledge.

' What are you doing ? ' cried her attendants,
pulling her back.

'* That 's my little girl ! ' cried Zoska, holding on.

4 What if she is yours ? ' said the Soltys, ' there 's
one road for you and another for her.'

' She 's my little girl, mine ! ' With both hands
the woman held on to the sledge, but the peasant
whipped up the horses and she fell to the ground ;
she grasped the runners and was dragged along for
several yards.

188 THE OUTPOST

' Don't behave like a lunatic,5 cried the men,
detaching her with difficulty from the fast-moving
sledge ; she would have run after it, but one of
them knelt on her feet and the other held her by
the shoulders.

' She 's my little girl ; Slimak has let her freeze
to death. . , . God punish him, may he freeze to
death himself ! ' she screamed.

Gradually, as the sledge moved away, she
calmed down, her livid face assumed its copper
colour, and her eyes became dull. She fell back
into her old apathy.

' She 's forgotten all about it,' said one of her
companions.

1 These lunatics are often happier than other
people,' answered the friend. Then they walked
on in silence. Nothing was heard but the creaking
snow under their feet.

CHAPTEK X

THE loss of his horses had almost driven Slimak
crazy. Beating Maciek and kicking him out had
not exhausted his anger. He felt the room oppres-
sive, walked out into the yard and ran up and down
with clenched fists and bloodshot eyes, waiting
for a chance to vent his temper.

He remembered that he ought to feed the cows
and went into the stable, where he pushed the
animals about, and when one clumsily trod on his
foot, he seized a fork and beat her mercilessly.
He kicked Burek's body behind the barn. c You
damned dog, if you had not taken bread from
strangers, I should still have my horses ! '

THE OUTPOST 189

He returned to the room and threw himself on
the bench with such violence that he upset the block
for wood-chopping. Jendrek laughed, but his
father unbuckled his belt and did not stop beating
him till the boy crept, bleeding, under the bench.
With the belt in his hand Slimak waited for his
wife to make a remark. But she remained silent,
only holding on to the chimney-piece for support.

4 What makes you stagger ? Haven't you got
over yesterday's vodka ? '

' Something 's wrong with me,' she answered
low.

He decided to strap on his belt. ' What 's
wrong ? '

' I can't see, and there 's a noise in my ears.
Is any one whistling ? '

' Don't drink vodka and you'll hear no noises,'
he said, spitting, and went out. It surprised him
that she had made no remark after the thrashing
he had given Jendrek, and having no one to beat,
he seized an axe and chopped wood until nightfall,
eating nothing all day. Logs and splinters fell
round him, he felt as if he were revenging himself
on his enemies, and when he left off, stiff and tired,
his shirt soaked with perspiration, his anger had
gone from him.

He was surprised to find no one in the room and
peeped into the alcove ; Slimakowa was lying on
the bed.

' What 's the matter ? '

' I'm not well, but it 's nothing.'

' The fire has gone out.'

' Out ? ' she asked vaguely, raising herself.
She got up and lighted the fire with difficulty, her
husband watching her.

190 THE OUTPOST

' You see,' he said presently, ' you got hot
yesterday and then you would drink water out of
the Jew's pewter pot and unbutton your jacket.
You have caught cold.'

* It 's nothing,' she said ill-humouredly, pulled
herself together and warmed up the supper.
Jendrek crept out and took a spoon, but cried
instead of eating.

During the night, at about the hour when the
unhappy Maciek was drawing his last breath in the
ravines, Slimakowa was seized with violent fits
of shivering. Slimak covered her with his sheep-
skin and it passed off. She got up in the morning,
and although she complained of pains, she went
about her work. Slimak was depressed.

Towards evening a sledge stopped at the gate
and the innkeeper Josel entered with a strange
expression on his face. Slimak's conscience
pricked him.

' ^The Lord be praised,.' said Josel.

' In Eternity.'

A silence ensued.

6 You have nothing to ask ? ' said the Jew.

' What should I have to ask ? ' Slimak looked
into his eyes and involuntarily grew pale.

' To-morrow,' Josel said slowly, ' to-morrow
Jendrek's trial is coming on for violence to
Hermann.'

' They'll do nothing to him.'

' I expect he will have to sit in jail for a bit.'

' Then let him sit, it will cure- him of fighting.'

Again silence fell. The Jew shook his head ;
Slimak's alarm grew.

He screwed up his courage at last and asked :
' What else ? '

THE OUTPOST 191

' What 's the use of making many words ? ' said
the Jew, holding up his hands, ' Maciek and the
child have been frozen to death.'

Slimak sprang to his feet and looked for some-
thing to throw at the Jew, but staggered and held
on to the wall. A hot wave rushed over him, his
legs shook. Then he wondered why he should
have been seized with fear like this.

' Where . . . when ? '

' In the ravines close to the railway line.5

' But when ? '

' You know quite well that it was yesterday
when you drove them out.' Slimak's anger was
rising.

' As I live ! the Jew is a liar ! Frozen to death ?
What did he go to the ravines for ? are there no
cottages in the world ? '

The innkeeper shrugged his shoulders and got
up.

' You can believe it or not, it 's all the same to
me, but I myself saw them being driven to the
police-station.'

' Ah well ! What harm can they do to me,
because Maciek has been frozen ? '

' Perhaps men can't do you harm, but, man,
before God ! or don't you believe in God ? ' the
Jew asked from the other side of the door, his
burning eyes fixed on Slimak.

The peasant stood still and listened to his heavy
tread down to the gate and to the sound of his
departing sledge. He shook himself, turned round
and met Jendrek's eyes looking fixedly at him
from the far corner.

' Why should I be to blame ? ' he muttered.
Suddenly an annual sermon, preached by an old

192 THE OUTPOST

priest, flashed through his mind ; he seemed to
hear the peculiar cadence of his voice as he said :
' I was an hungered and ye gave me no meat. ... I
was a stranger and ye took me not in. '

' By God, the Jew is lying,' he exclaimed. These
words seemed to break the spell ; he felt sure
Maciek and the child were alive, and he almost
went out to call them in to supper.

* A low Jew, that Josel,' he said to his wife,
while he covered her again with the sheepskin,
when her shivering-fits returned. Nothing should
induce him to believe that story.

Next day the village Soltys drove up with the
summons for Jendrek.

' His trial does not come on till to-morrow,'
he said, ' but as I was driving that way, I thought
he might as well come with me.'

Jendrek grew pale and silently put on his new
sukmana and sheepskin.

' What will they do to him ? ' his father asked
peevishly.

' Eh ! I dare say he'll get a few days, perhaps a
week.'

Slimak slowly pulled a rouble out of a little
packet.

' And . . . Soltys, have you heard what the
accursed Jew has been saying about Maciek and the
child being frozen to death ? '

' How shouldn't I have heard ? ' said the Soltys,
reluctantly ; ' it 's true.'

* Frozen . . . frozen ? '

' Yes, of course. But,' he added, ' every ene
understands that it 's not your fault. He didn't
look after the horses and you discharged him.
No one told him to go down into the ravines.

THE OUTPOST 193

He must have been drunk. The poor wretch died
through his own stupidity.'

Jendrek was ready to start, and embraced his
parents' knees. Slimak gave him the rouble,
tears came into his eyes ; his mother, however,
showed no sign of interest.

' Jagna,' Slimak said with concern, 'Jendrek
is going to his trial.'

' What of that ? ' she answered with a delirious
look.

' Are you very ill ? '

* No, I'm only weak.'

She went into the alcove and Slimak remained
alone. The longer he sat pondering the lower his
head dropped on to his chest. Half dozing, he
fancied he was sitting on a wide, grey plain, no
bushes, no grass, not even stones were to be seen ;
there was nothing in front of him ; but at his side
there was something he dared not look at. It was
Maciek with the child looking steadily at him.

No, he would not look, he need not look ! He
need see nothing of him, except a little bit of his
sukmana . . . perhaps not even that !

The thought of Maciek was becoming an obses-
sion. He got up and began to busy himself with
the dishes.

' What am I coming to ? It doesn't do to give
way ! '

He pulled himself together, fed the cattle, ran
to the river for water. It was so long since he
had done these things that he felt rejuvenated,
and but for the thought of Maciek he would have
been almost cheerful.

His gloom returned with the dusk. It was the
silence that tormented him most. Nothing

230

194 THE OUTPOST

stirred but the mice behind the boards. The voice
was haunting him again : ' I was a stranger and ye
took me not in.'

' It 's all the fault of those scoundrel Swabians
that everything is going wrong with me, ' he muttered,
and began to count his losses on the window-pane :
' Stasiek, that 's one, the cow two, the horses four,
because the thieves did that out of spite for the
hog, Burek five, Jendrek six, Maciek and the child
eight, and Magda had to leave, and my wife is ill
with worry, that makes ten. Lord Christ . . . ! '

Trembling seized him and he gripped his hair ;
he had never in his life felt fear like this, though
he had looked death in the face more than once.
He had suddenly caught a glimpse of the power
the Germans were exercising, and it scared him.
They had destroyed all his life's work, and yet
you could not bring it home to them. They had
lived like others, ploughed, prayed, taught their
children ; you could not say they were doing any
wrong, and yet they had made his home desolate
simply by being there. They had blasted what
was near them as smoke from a kiln withers all
green things.

Not until this moment had the thought ever
come to him : ' I am too close to them ! The
gospodarstwos farther off do not suffer like this.
What good is the land, if the people on it die ? '

This new aspect was so horrible to him, that he
felt he must escape from it ; he glanced at his wife,
she was asleep. The cadence of the priest's voice
began to haunt him again.

Steps were approaching through the yard. The
peasant straightened himself. Could it be Jendrek?
The door creaked. No, it was a strange hand that

THE OUTPOST 195

groped along the wall in the darkness. He drew
back, and his head swam when the door opened
and Zoska stood on the threshold.

For a moment both stood silent, then Zoska said :
' Be praised.'

She began rubbing her hands over the fire.

The idea of Maciek and the child and Zoska had
became confused in Slimak's mind ; he looked
at her as if she were an apparition from the other
world. ' Where do you come from ? ' His voice
was choked.

' They sent me back to the parish and told me
to look out for work. They said they wouldn't
keep loafers.' *

Seeing the food in the saucepan, she began to
lick her lips like a dog.

' Pour out a basin of soup for yourself.'

She did as she was told.

' Don't you want a servant ? ' she asked
presently.

' I don't know ; my wife is ill.'

' There you are ! It 's quiet here. Where 's
Magda ? '

' Left.'

' Jendrek ? '

' Sent up for trial.'

' There, you are ! Stasiek ? '

' Drowned last summer,' he whispered, fearful
lest Maciek's and the little girl's turn should some
next.

But she ate greedily like a wild animal, and
asked nothing further.

' Does she know ? ' he thought.

Zoska had finished and struck her hand cheer-
fully on her knee. He took courage.

196 THE OUTPOST

' Can I stop the night ? '

Uneasiness seized him ; any other guest would
have been a blessing in his solitude, but Zoska. . . .
If she did not know the truth, what ill wind had
blown her here ? And if she knew ? . . . '

He reflected. In the intense silence suddenly
the priest's voice started again : ' I was a stranger
and ye took me not in.'

' All right, stop here, but you must sleep in this
room.'

' Or in the barn ? '

' No, here.'

He hardly knew what it was that he feared ;
there was a vague s$nse of misfortune in the air
which was tormenting him.

The fire died down. Zoska lay down on the
bench in her rags and Slimak went into the alcove.
He sat on the bed, determined to be on the watch.
He did not know that this strange state of mind is
called ' nerves '. Yet a kind of relief had come in
with Zoska ; she had driven away the spectre of
Maciek and the child. But an iron ring was be-
ginning to press on his head. This was sleep, heavy
sleep, the companion of great anguish. He dreamt
that he was split in two ; one part of him was
sitting by his sick wife, the other was Maciek,
standing outside the window, where sunflowers
bloomed in the summer. This new Maciek was
unlike the old one, he was gloomy and vindictive.

' Don't believe,' said the strange guest, ' that I
shall forgive you. It's not so much that I got
frozen, that might happen to anyone the worse for
drink, but you drove me away for no fault of mine
after I had served you so long. And what harm had
the child done to you ? Don't turn away ! Pass

THE OUTPOST 197

judgement on yourself for what you have done.
God will not let these wrongs be done and keep
silent.'

'What shall I say.? ' thought Slimak, bathed in
perspiration. •' He is telling the truth, I am a
scoundrel. He shall fix the punishment, perhaps
he will get it over quickly.'

His wife moved and he opened his eyes, but
closed them again. A rosy brightness filled the
room, the frost glittered in flowers on the window
panes. ' Daylight ? ' he thought.

No, it was not daylight, the rosy brightness
trembled. A smell of burning was heavy in the
room.

' Fire ? '

He looked into the room ; Zoska had dis-
appeared.

' I knew it ! ' he exclaimed, and ran out into
the yard.

His house was indeed on fire ; the roof towards
the highroad was alight, but owing to the thick
layers of snow the flames spread but slowly ; he
could still have saved the house, but he did not
even think of this.

' Get up, Jagna,' he cried, running back into the
alcove, ' the house is on fire ! '

' Leave me alone,' said the delirious woman,
covering her head with the sheepskin. He seized
her and, stumbling over the threshold, carried her
into the shed, fetched her clothes and bedding,
broke open the chest and took out his money ;
finally he threw everything he could lay hands on
out of the window. Here was at least something
tangible to fight. The whole roof was now ablaze ;
smoke and flames were coming into the room from

198 THE OUTPOST

the boarded ceiling. He was dragging the bench
through the brightly illuminated yard when he
happened to look at the barn ; he stood petrified.
Flames were licking at it, and there stood Zoska
shaking her clenched fist at him and shouting :
' That 's my thanks to you, Slimak, for taking care
of my child, now you shall die as she did ! '

She flew out of the yard and up the hill ; he
could see her by the light of the fire, dancing and
clapping her hands.

' Fire, fire ! ' she shouted.

Slimak reeled like a wild animal after the first
shot. Then he slowly went towards the barn and
sat down, not thinking of seeking help. This was
the beginning of the divine punishment for the
wrong he had done.

' We shall all die ! ' he murmured.

Both buildings were burning like pillars of fire,
and in spite of the frost Slimak felt hot in the shed.
Suddenly shouts and clattering came from the
settlement ; the Germans were coming to his
assistance. Soon the yard was swarming with them,
men, women and children with hand-fire-engines
and buckets. They formed into groups, and at
Fritz Hamer's command began to pull down the
burning masses and to put out the fire. Laughing
and emulating each other in daring, they went
into the fire as into a dance ; some of the most
venturesome climbed up the walls of the burning
buildings. Zoska approached once more from the
side of the ravines.

4 Never mind the Germans helping you, you will
die all the same/ she cried.

* Who is that? ' shouted the settlers/ catch her ! '

But Zoska was too quick for them.

THE OUTPOST 199

' I suppose it was she who set fire to your house ? '
asked Fritz.
• ' No one else but she.'

Fritz was silent for a moment.

' It would be better for you to sell us the land.'

The peasant hung his head. . . .

The barn could not be saved, but the walls of
the cottage were still standing ; some of the people
were busy putting out the fire, others surrounded
the sick woman.

' What are you going to do ? ' Fritz began again.

' We will live in the stable.'

The women whispered that they had better be
taken to the settlement, but the men shook their
heads, saying the woman might be infectious.
Fritz inclined to this opinion and ordered her to be
well wrapped up and taken into the stable.

' We will send you what you need,' he said.

' God reward you,' said Siimak, embracing his
knees.

Fritz took Hermann aside.

' Drive full speed to Wolka,' he said, ' and fetch
miller Knap ; we may be able to settle this affair
to-night.'

'It's high time we did,' replied the other,
audibly, ' we shan't hold out till the spring unless
we do.'

Fritz swore.

Nevertheless, he took leave benevolently.
Bending over the sick woman he said : * She is
quite unconscious.'

But in a strangely decided voice she ejaculated :
' Ah !' unconscious ! '

He drew back in confusion. ' She is delirious,'
he said.

200 THE OUTPOST

At daybreak the Germans brought the promised
help, but Slimak paced backwards and forwards
among the ruins of his homestead, from which the
smell of smouldering embers rose pungently. He
looked at his household goods, tumbled into the
yard. How many times had he sat on that bench
and cut notches and crosses into it when a boy.
That heap of smouldering ruins represented his
storehouse and the year's crop. How small the
cottage looked now that it was reduced to walls,
and how large the chimney ! He took out his
money, hid it under a heap of dry manure in the
stable and strolled about again. Up the hill he
went, with a feeling that they were talking about
him in the village and would come to his help.
But there was no one to be seen on the boundless
covering of snow ; here and there smoke rose from
the cottages.

His imagination, keener than usual, conjured
up old pictures. He fancied he was harrowing on
the hill with the two chestnuts who were whisking
their tails under his nose ; the sparrows were
twittering, Stasiek gazing into the river ; by the
bridge his wife was beating the linen, he could hear
the resounding smacks, while the squire's brother-
in-law was wildly galloping up and down the valley.
Jendrek and Magda were answering each other in
snatches of songs. . . .

Suddenly he was awakened from his dreams by
the stench of his burnt cottage ; he looked up, and
everything he saw became abominable to him.
The frozen river, into which his child would never
gaze again ; the empty, hideous homestead ; he
longed to escape from it all and go far away and
forget Stasiek and Maciek and the whole accursed

THE OUTPOST 201

gospodarstwo. He could buy land more cheaply
elsewhere with the money he would get from the
Germans. What was the good of the land if it
was ruining the people on it ?

He went into the stable and lay down near his
wife, who was moaning deliriously, and soon fell
asleep.

At noon old Hamer appeared, accompanied by
a German woman who carried two bowls of hot
soup. He stood over Slimak and poked him with
his stick.

' Hey, get up ! '

Slimak roused himself and looked about heavily ;
seeing the hot food he ate greedily. Hamer sat
down in the doorway, smoking his pipe and
watching Slimak ; he nodded contentedly to him-
self.

' I've been down to the village to ask Gryb and
the other gospodarze to come and help you, for
that is a Christian duty. . . . '

He waited for the peasant's thanks, but Slimak
went on eating and did not look at him.

' I told them they ought to take you in ; but
they said, God was punishing you for the death
of the labourer and the child and they didn't wish
to interfere. They are no Christians.'

Slimak had finished eating, but he remained
silent.

' Well, what are you going to do ? '

Slimak wiped his mouth and said : ' I shall sell/

Hamer poked his pipe with deliberation.

' To whom ? '

' To you.'

Hamer again busied himself with his pipe..
' All right ! I am willing to buy, as you have fallen,
H 3

202 THE OUTPOST

upon bad times. But I can only give you seventy
roubles.'

' You were giving a hundred not long ago.J

' Why didn't you take it ? '

' That 's true, why didn't I take it ? Everyone
profits as he can.'

' Have you never tried to profit ? '

' I have.'

' Then will you take it ? '

' Why shouldn't I take it ? '

' We will settle the matter at my house to-night.'

' The sooner the better.'

' Well, since it is so,' Hamer added after a while,
' I will give you seventy-five roubles, and you shan't
be left to die here. You and your wife can come to
the school ; you can spend the winter with us and
I will give you the same pay as my own farm-
labourers.'

Slimak winced at the word e farm-labourer ', but
he said nothing.

' And your gospodarze,' concluded Hamer, ' are
brutes. They will do nothing for you.'

Before sunset a sledge conveyed the unconscious
woman to the settlement. Slimak remained,
recovered his money from under the manure,
collected a few possessions and milked the cows.

The dumb animals looked reproachfully at him
and seemed to ask : ' Are you sure you have done
the best you could, gospodarz ? '

' What am I to do ?' he returned, ' the place is
unlucky, it is bewitched. Perhaps the Germans
can take the spell away, I can't.'

He felt as if his feet were being held to the ground,
but he spat at it. ' Much I have to be thankful
to you for ! Barren land, far from everybody so

THE OUTPOST 203

that thieves may profit ! ' He would not look
back.

On the way he met two German farm-labourers,
who had come to spend the night in the stable ;
as he passed them, they laughed.

' Catch me spending the winter with you
scoundrels ! I'm off directly the wife is well and the
boy out of jail.'

A black shadow detached itself from the gate
when he reached the settlement. * Is that you,
schoolmaster ? '

' Yes. So you have consented after all to sell
your land ? '

Slimak was silent.

' Perhaps it 's the best thing you can do. If
you can't make much of it yourself, at least you
can save* others.' He looked round and lowered
his voice. ' But mind you bargain well, for you
are doing them a good turn. Miller Knap will
pay cash down as soon as the contract has been
signed and give his daughter to Wilhelm. Other-
wise Hirschgold will turn the Hamers out at
midsummer and sell the land to Gryb. They have
a heavy contract with the Jew.'

' What ? Gryb would buy the settlement ? '

' Indeed he would. He is anxious to settle his
son too, and Josel has been sniffing round for a
month past. So there 's your chance, bargain well.'

' Why, damn it,' said Slimak, ' I would rather
have a hundred Germans than that old Judas.'

A door creaked and the schoolmaster changed
the conversation. ' Come this way, your wife is in
the schoolroom.'

' Is that Slimak ? ' Fritz called out.

' It is I.'

204 . THE OUTPOST

' Don't stay long with your wife, she is being
looked after, and we want you at daybreak ; you
must sleep in the kitchen.'

The noise of loud conversation and clinking of
glasses came from the back of the house, but the
large schoolroom was empty, and only lighted by
a small lamp. His wife was lying on a plank bed ;
a pungent smell of vinegar pervaded the room.
That smell took the heart out of Slimak ; surely
his wife must be very ill ! He stood over her ; her
eye-lashes twitched and she looked steadily at him.

' Is it you, Josef ? '

' Who else should it be ? '

Her hands moved about restlessly on the sheep-
skin ; she said distinctly : ' What are you doing,
Josef, what are you doing ? '

' You see I am standing here.'

' Ah yes, you are standing there . . . but what
are you doing ? I know everything, never fear ! '

' Go away, gospodarz,' hurriedly cried the old
woman, pushing him towards the door, ' she is
getting excited, it isn't good for her.'

' Josef ! ' cried Slimakowa, ' come back ! Josef,
I must speak to you ! ' The peasant hesitated.

' You are doing no good,' whispered the school-
master, ' she is rambling, she may go to sleep when
you are out of sight.'

He drew Slimak into the passage, and Fritz
Hamer at once took him to the further room.

Miller Knap and old Hamer were sitting at a
brightly lighted table behind their beer mugs,
blowing clouds of smoke from their pipes. The
miller had the appearance of a huge sack of flour
as he sat there in his shirtsleeves, holding a full
pot of beer in his hand and wiping the perspira-

THE OUTPOST 205

,ion off his forehead. Gold studs glittered in his
shirt.

' Well, you are going to let us have /our land at
fist ': ' he shouted.

' I don't know,' said the peasant in a low voice,
maybe I shall sell it.' The miller roared with
aughter.

Wilhelm,' he bellowed, as if Wilhelm, who was
officiating at the beer-barrel on the bench, were
lalf a mile off, ' pour out some beer for this man.
3rink to my health and I'll drink to yours, although
you never used to bring me your corn to grind. But
why didn't you sell us your land before ? '

' I don't know,' said the peasant, taking a long
ll.

' Fill up his glass,' shouted the miller, ' I will
tell you why ; it 's because you don't know your
own mind. Determination is what you want.
!'ve said to myself : I will have a mill at Wolka,
and a mill at Wolka I have, although the Jews
,,wice set fire to it. I said : My son shall be a
doctor, and a doctor he will be. And now I've said :
lamer, your son must have a windmill, so he must
lave a windmill. Pour out another glass, Wilhelm,
d beer ... eh ? my son-in-law brews it. What ?
no more beer ? Then we'll go to bed.'

Fritz pushed Slimak into the kitchen, where one
>f the farm-hands was asleep already. He felt
tupefied ; whether it was- with the beer or with
Snap's noisy conversation, he could not tell,
sat down on his plank bed and felt cheerful.
e noise of conversation in German reached him
rom the adjoining room ; then the Hamers left
he house. Miller Knap stamped about the room
or a while ; presently his thick voice repeated the

206 THE OUTPOST

Lord's prayer while he was pulling off his boots
and throwing them into a corner : ' Amen amen,'
he concluded, and flung himself heavily upon the
bed ; a few moments later noises as if he were being
throttled and murdered proclaimed that he was
asleep.

The moon was throwing a feeble light through
the small squares of the window.

Between waking and sleeping Slimak continued
to meditate : ' Why shouldn't I sell ? It 's better
to buy fifteen acres of land elsewhere, than to
stay and have Jasiek Gryb as a neighbour. The
sooner I sell, the better.' He got up as if he
wished to settle the matter at once, laughed
quietly to himself and felt more and more intoxi-
cated.

Then, he saw a human shadow outlined against
the window pane ; someone was trying to look
into the room. The peasant approached the
window and became sober. He ran into the passage
and pulled the door open with trembling hands.
Frosty air fanned his face. His wife was standing
outside, still trying to look through the window.

' Jagna, for God's sake, what are you doing here ?
Who dressed you ? '

' I dressed myself, but I couldn't manage my
boots, they are quite crooked. Come home,' she
eaid, drawing him by the hand.

1 Where,«home ? Are you so ill that you don't
know our home is burnt down ? Where will you go
on a bitter night like this ? '

Hamer's mastiffs were beginning to growl.
Slimakowa hung on her husband's arm. ' Come
home, come home,' she urged stubbornly, ' I will
not die in a strange house, I am a gospodyni, I will

THE OUTPOST 207

not stay here with the Swabians. The priests
would not even sprinkle holy water on my coffin.'

She pulled him and he went ; the dogs went
after them for a while snapping at their clothes ;
they made straight for the frozen river, so as to
reach their own nest the sooner. On the river
bank they stopped for a moment, the tired woman
was out of breath.

* You have let yourself be tempted by the
Germans to sell them your land ! You think I
don't know. Perhaps you will say it is not true ? '
she cried, looking wildly into his eyes. He hung his
head.

' You traitor, you son of a dog ! ' she burst out.
' Sell your land ! You would sell the Lord Jesus to
the Jews ! Tired of being a gospodarz, are you ?
What is Jendrek to do ? And is a gospodyni to die
in a stranger's house ? '

She drew him into the middle of the frozen river.

' Stand here, Judas,' she cried, seizing him by the
hands. ' Will you sell your land ? Listen ! Sell it,
and God will curse you and the boy. This ice shall
break if you don't give up that devil's thought !
I won't give you peace after death, you shall never
sleep ! When you close your eyes I will come
and open them again . . . listen ! ' she cried in a
paroxysm of rage, ' if you sell the land, you shall
not swallow the holy sacrament, it shall turn to
blood in your mouth.'

' Jesus ! ' whispered the man.

' . . . Where you tread, the grass shall be blasted !
You shall throw a spell on everyone you look at,
and misfortune shall befall them.'

' Jesus . . . Jesus ! ' he groaned, tearing himself
from her and stopping his ears.

208 THE OUTPOST

* Will you sell the land ? ' she cried, with her face
close to his. He shook his head. ' Not if you have
to draw your last breath lying on filthy litter ? '

' Not though I had to draw ... so help me God ! '

The woman was staggering ; her husband
carried her to the other bank and reached the
stable, where the two farm labourers were installed.

' Open the door ! ' He hammered until one of
them appeared.
. ' Clear out ! I am going to put my wife in here.'

They demurred and he kicked them both out.
They went off, cursing and threatening him.

Slimak laid his wife down on the warm litter and
strolled about the yard, thinking that he must
presently fetch help for her and a doctor. Now
and then he looked into the stable ; she seemed to
be sleeping quietly. Her great peacefulness began
to strike him, his head was swimming, he heard
noises in his ears ; he knelt down and pulled her by
the hand ; she was dead, even cold.

' Now I don't care if I go to the devil,' he said,
raked some straw into a corner and was asleep
within a few minutes.

It was afternoon when he was at last awakened
by old Sobieska.

' Get up, Slimak ! your wife is dead ! God's
faith ! dead as a stone.'

' How can I help it ? ' said the peasant, turning
over and drawing his sheepskin over his head.

' But you must buy a coffin and notify the
parish.'

' Let anyone who cares do that.'

' Who will do it ? In the village they say it 's
God's punishment on you. And won't the Germans
take it out of you ! That fat man has quarrelled

THE OUTPOST 209

with them. Josel says you are now reaping the
benefit of selling your fowls : he threatened me
if I came here to see you. Get up now ! '

' Let me be or I'll kick you ! '

' You godless man, is your wife to lie there with-
out Christian burial ? ' He advanced his boot so
vehemently that the old woman ran screaming out
along the highroad.

Slimak pushed to the door and lay down again.
A hard peasant-stubbornness had seized him. He
was certain that he was past salvation. He neither
accused himself nor regretted anything ; he only
wanted to be left to sleep eternally. Divine
pity could have saved him, but he no longer be-
lieved in divine pity, and no human hand would
do so much as give him a cup of water.

While the sound of the evening-bells floated
through the air, and the women in the cottages
whispered the Angelus, a bent figure approached
the gospodarstwo, a sack on his back, a stick in
his hand ; the glory of the setting sun surrounded
him. Such as these are the ' angels ' which the
Lord sends to people in the extremity of their
sorrow.

It was Jonah Niedoperz, the oldest and poorest
Jew in the neighbourhood ; he traded in every-
thing and never had any money to keep his large
family, with whom he lived in a half-ruined cottage
with broken windowpanes. Jonah was on his
way to the village and was meditating deeply.
Would he get a job there ? would he live to have
a dinner of pike on the Sabbath ? would his
little grandchildren ever have two shirts to their
backs ?

' Ajwaj ! ' he muttered, ' and they even took the

210 THE OUTPOST

three roubles from me ! ' He had never forgotten
that robbery in the autumn, for it was the largest
sum he had ever possessed.

His glance fell on the burnt homestead. Good
God ! if such a thing should ever befall the cottage
where his wife and daughters, sons-in-law and
grandchildren lived ! His emotion grew when he
heard the cows lowing miserably. He approached
the stable.

' Slimak ! My good lady gospodyni ! ' he cried,
tapping at the door. He was afraid to open it lest
he should be suspected of prying into other
people's business.

1 Who is that ? ' asked Slimak.

' It 's only I, old Jonah,' he said, and peeped in,
' but what 's wrong with your honours ? ' he
asked in astonishment.

' My wife is dead.'

' Dead ? how dead ? what do you mean by such
a joke ? Ajwaj ! really dead ? ' He looked atten-
tively at her.

' Such a good gospodyni . . . what a misfortune,
God defend us ! And you are lying there and
don't see about the funeral ? '

' There may as well be two,' murmured the
peasant.

' How two ? are you ill ? '

'No.'

The Jew shook his head and spat. ' It can't be
like this ; if you won't move I will go and give
notice ; tell me what to do.'

Slimak did not answer. The cows began to low
again.

' What is the matter with the cows ? ' the Jew
asked interestedly.

THE OUTPOST 211

' I suppose they want water.'

' Then why don't you "water them ? '

No answer came. The Jew looked at Slimak and
waited, then he tapped his forehead. ' Where is
the pail, gospodarz ? '

' Leave me alone.'

But Jonah did not give in. He found the pail,
ran to the ice-hole and watered the cows ; he had
sympathy for cows, because he dreamt of possess-
ing one himself one day, or at least a goat. Then
he put the pail close to Slimak. He was exhausted
with this unusually hard work.

' Well, gospodarz, what is to happen now ? '

His pity touched Slimak, but failed to rouse
him. He raised his head. ' If you should see
Grochowski, tell him not to sell the land before
Jendrek is of age.'

' But what am I to do now, when I get to the
village ? '

Slimak had relapsed into silence.

The Jew rested his chin in his hand and pondered
for a while ; at last he took his bundle and stick
and went off. The miserable old man's pity was
so strong that he forgot his own needs and only
thought of saving the other. Indeed, he was
unattle to distinguish between himself and his
fellow-creature, and he felt as if he himself were
lying on the straw beside his dead wife and must
rouse himself at all costs.

He went as fast as his old legs would carry him
straight to Grochowski ; by the time he arrived
it was dark. He knocked, but received no answer,
waited for a quarter of an hour and then walked
round the house. Despairing at last of making
himself heard, he was just going to depart, when

212 THE OUTPOST

Grochowski suddenly confronted him, as if the
ground had produced him.'

' What do you want, Jew ? ' asked the huge man,
concealing some long object behind his back.

' What do I want ? ' quavered the frightened
Jew, ' I have come straight from Slimak's. Do
you know that his house is burnt down, his wife is
dead, and he is lying beside her, out of his wits ?
He talks as if he had a filthy idea in his head, and
he hasn't even watered the cows.'

e Listen, Jew,' said Grochowski fiercely, ' who
told you to come here and lie to me ? is it those
horse-stealers ? '

' What horse-stealers V I've come straight
from Slimak. . . .'

' Lies ! You won't draw me away from here,
whatever you do.'

The Jew now perceived that it was a gun which
Grochowski was hiding behind his back, and the
sight so unnerved him that he nearly fell down.
He fled at full speed along the highroad. Even
now, however, he did not forget Slimak, but
walked on towards the village to find the priest.

The priest had been in the parish for several
years. He was middle-aged and extremely good-
looking, and possessed the education and manners
of a nobleman. He read more than any of his
neighbours, hunted, was sociable, and kept bees.
Everybody spoke well of him, the nobility because
he was clever and fond of society, the Jews because
he would not allow them to be oppressed, the
settlers because he entertained their Pastors, the
peasants because he renovated the church, con-
ducted the services with much pomp, preached
beautiful sermons, and gave to the poor. But in

THE OUTPOST 213

spite of this there was no intimate touch between
him and his simple parishioners. When they
thought of him, they felt that God was a great
nobleman, benevolent and merciful, but not
friends with the first comer. The priest felt this
and regretted it. No peasant had ever invited
him to a weddjjig or christening. At first he had
tried to break through their shyness, and had
entered into conversations with them ; but these
ended in embarrassment on both sides and he left
it off. ' I cannot act the democrat,' he thought
irritably.

Sometimes when he had been left to himself for
several days owing to bad roads, he had pricks of
conscience.

' I am a Pharisee,' he thought ; ' I did not become
a priest only to associate with the nobility, but
to serve the humble.'

He would then lock himself in, pray for the
apostolic spirit, vow to give away his spaniel and
empty his cellar of wine.

But as a rule, just as the spirit of humility and
renunciation was beginning to be awakened,
Satan would send him a visitor.

1 God have mercy ! fate is against me,' he would
mutter, get up from his knees, give orders for the
kitchen and cellar, and sing jolly songs and drink
like an Uhlan a quarter of an hour afterwards.

To-night, at the time when Jonah was drawing
near to the Parsonage, he was getting ready for
a party at a neighbouring landowner's to meet an
engineer from Warsaw who would have the latest
news and be entertained exceptionally well, for he
was courting the landowner's daughter. The
priest was longing feverishly for the moment of

214 THE OUTPOST

departure, for he had been left to himself for
several days. He could hardly bear the look of his
snow-covered courtyard any more, having no
diversion except watching a man chop wood, and
hearing the cawing of rooks. He paced to and fro,
thinking that another quarter of an hour must have
gone, and was surprised to find it was only a few
minutes since he had last looked at his watch.
He ordered the samovar and lit his pipe. Then
there was a knock at the door. Jonah came in,
bowing to the ground.

' I am glad to see you,' said the priest, ' there
are several things in my wardrobe that want
mending.'

' God be praised for that, I haven't had work for
a week past. And your honour's lady housekeeper
tells me that the clock is broken as well.'

' What ? you mend clocks too ? '

' Why yes, I've even got the tools to do it with.
I'm also an umbrella-mender and harness-maker,
and I can glaze ste wing-pans.'

' If that is so you might spend the winter here.
When can you begin ? '

* I'll sit down now and work through the night.'

* As you like. Ask them to give you some tea
in the kitchen.'

' Begging your Reverence's pardon, may I ask
that the sugar might be served separately ? '

' Don't you like your tea sweet ? '

' On the contrary, I like it very sweet. But I
save the sugar for my grandchildren.'

The priest laughed at the Jew's astuteness. ' All
right ! have your tea with sugar and some for your
grandchildren as well. Walenty ! ' he called out,
' bring me my fur coat.'

THE OUTPOST 215

The Jew began bowing afresh. 'With an entreaty
for your Reverence's pardon, I come from Slimak's. '

' The man whose house was burnt down ? '

' Not that he asked me to come, your Reverence,
he would not presume to do such a thing, but his
wife is dead, they are both lying in the stable, and
I am sure he has a bad thought in his head, for
no <one does so much as give him a cup of watoer.'
The priest started.

' No one has visited him ? '

' Begging your Reverence's pardon/ bowed the
Jew, ' but they say in the village, God's anger
has fallen on him, so he must die without help.'
He looked into the priest's eyes as if Slimak's
salvation depended on him. His Reverence
knocked his pipe on the floor till it broke.

' Then I'll go into the kitchen,' said the Jew, and
took up his bundle. The sledge-bells tinkled at the
door, the valet stood ready with the fur coat.

' I shall be wanted for the betrothal,' reflected
the priest, ' that man will last till to-morrow, and
I can't bring the dead woman back to life. It 's
eight o'clock, if I go to the man first there will be
nothing to go for afterwards. Give me my fur
coat, Walenty.' He went into his bedroom :
1 Are the horses ready ? Is it a bright night ? '

' Quite bright, your Reverence.'

' I cannot be the slave of all the people wh'o are
burnt down and all the women who die,' he
agitatedly resumed his thoughts, ' it will be time
enough to-morrow, and anyhow the man can't
be worth much if no one will help him.' . . . His eyes
fell on the crucifix. ' Divine wounds ! Here I am
hesitating between my amusement and comforting
the stricken, and I am a priest and a citizen !

216 ' THE OUTPOST

Get a basket,' he said in a changed voice to the
astonished servant, ' put the rest of the dinner
into it. I had better take the sacrament too,'
he thought, after the surprised man had left the
room, ' perhaps he is dying. God is giving me
another spell of grace instead of condemning me
eternally.'

He struck his breast and forgot that God does
not count the number of amusements preferred and
bottles emptied, but the greatness of the struggle
in each human heart.

CHAPTEE XI

WITHIN half an hour the priest's round ponies
stood at Slimak's gate. The priest walked towards
the stable with a lantern in one hand and a basket
in the other, pushed open the door with his foot,
and saw Slimakowa's body. Further away, on the
litter, sat the peasant, shading his eyes from the
light.

' Who is that ? ' he asked.

4 It is I, your priest.'

Slimak sprang to his feet, with deep astonish-
ment on his face. He advanced with unsteady
steps to the threshold, and gazed at the priest
with open mouth.

* What have you come for, your Reverence ? '

' I have come to bring you the divine blessing.
Put on your sheepskin, it is cold here. Have
something to eat.' He unpacked the basket.

Slimak stared, touched the priest's sleeve, and
suddenly fell sobbing at his feet.

THE OUTPOST 217

' I am wretched, your Reverence ... I am
wretched . . . wretched ! '

' Benedicat te omnipotens Deus ! ' Instead of
making the sign of the cross, the priest put his arm
round the peasant and drew him on to the threshold.

' Calm yourself, brother, all will be well. God
does not forsake His children.'

He kissed him and wiped his tears. With almost
a howl the peasant threw himself at his feet.

' Now I don't mind if I die, or if I go to hell for
my sins ! I've had this consolation that your
Reverence has taken pity on me. If I were to go
to the Holy City on my knees, it would not be
enough to repay you for your kindness.'

He touched the ground at the priest's feet as
though it weie the altar. The priest had to use
much persuasion before he put on his sheepskin
and consented to touch food.

' Take a good pull,' he said., pouring out the
mead.

' I dare not, your Reverence.'

' Well, then I will drink to you.' He touched the
glass with his lips.

The peasant took the glass with trembling hands
and drank kneeling, swallowing with difficulty.

' Don't you like it ? '

' Like it ? vodka is nothing compared to this ! '
Slimak's voice sounded natural again. ' Isn't it
just full of spice ! * he added, and revived rapidly.

' Now tell me all about it,' began the priest :
' I remember you as a prosperous gospodarz.'

' It would be a long story to tell your Reverence.
One of my sons was drowned, the other is in jail ;
my wife is dead, my horses were stolen, my house
burnt down. It all began with the squire's selling

218 THE OUTPOST

the village, and with the railway and the Germans
coming here. Then Josel set everyone against me,
because I had been selling fowls and other things to
the surveyors ; even now he is doing his best to . . .'

' But why does everyone go to Josel for advice ? *
interrupted the priest.

' To whom is one to go, begging your Reverence's
pardon ? We peasants are ignorant people. The
Jews know about everything, and sometimes they
give good advice.'

The priest winced. The peasant continued
excitedly :

' There were no wages coming in from the manor,
and the Germans took the two acres I had rented
from the squire.'

' But let me see,' said the priest, * wasn't it you
to whom the squire offered those two acres at
a great deal less than they were worth ? '

' Certainly it was me ! '

c Why didn't you take the offer ? I suppose you
did not trust him ? '

' How can one trust them when one does not
know what they are talking among themselves ;
they jabber like Jews, and when they talked to me
they were poking fun at me. Besides, there was
some talk of free distribution of land.'

' And you believed that ? '

' Why should I not believe it ? A man like^ to
believe what is to his advantage. The Jews
knew it wasn't true, but they won't tell.'

' Why didn't you apply for work at the railway ?

' I did, but the Germans kept me out.'

' Why couldn't you have come to me ? the chief
engineer was living at my house all the time,' said
the priest, getting angry.

THE OUTPOST 219

1 1 beg your Eeverence's pardon ; I couldn't
have known that, and I shouldn't Jiave dared to
apply to your Reverence.'

' Hm ! And the Germans annoyed you ? '

' Oh dear, oh dear ! haven't they been pestering
me to sell them my land all along, and when the
fire came I gave way. . . .'

' Ajid you sold them the land ? '

' God and my dead wife saved me from doing
that. She got up from her deathbed and laid
a curse upon me if I should sell the land. I would
rather die than sell it, but all the same,' he hung
his head, ' the Germans will pay me out.'

' I don't think they can do you much harm.'

' If the Germans leave,' continued the peasant,
' I shall be up against old Gryb, and he will do me
as much harm as the Germans, or more.'

* I am a good shepherd ! ' the priest reflected
bitterly. ' My sheep are fighting each other like
wolves, go to the Jews for advice, are persecuted
by the Germans, and I am going to entertain-
ments ! '

He got up. ' Stay here, my brother,' he said,
' I will go to the village.'

Slimak kissed his feet and accompanied him to
the sledge.

' Drive across to the village,' he directed his
coachman.

* To the village ? ' The coachman's face, which
was so chubby that it looked as if it had been
stung by bees, was comic in its astonishment :
' I thought we were going . . .'

' Drive where I tell you ! '

Slimak leant on the fence, as in happier days.

' How could he have known about me ? ' he

220 THE OUTPOST

reflected. ' Is a priest like God who knows every-
thing ? They would not have brought him word
from the village. It must have been good old
Jonah. But now they will not dare to .look
askance at me, because his Reverence himself has
come to see me. If he could only take the sin of
my sending Maciek and the child to their death
from me, I shouldn't be afraid of anything.'

Presently the priest returned.

' Are you there, Slimak ? ' he called out.
* Gryb will come to you to-morrow. Make it up
with him and don't quarrel any more. I have sent
to town for a coffin and am arranging for the
funeral.'

' Oh Redeemer ! ' sighed Slimak.

' Now, Pawel ! drive on as fast as the horses
will go,' cried the priest. He pulled out his re-
peater watch : it was a quarter to ten.

' I shall be late,' he murmured, ' but not too late
for everything ; there will be time for some fun
yet.'

As soon as the sledge had melted into the dark-
ness, and silence again brooded over his home, an
irresistible desire for sleep seized Slimak. He
dragged himself to the stable, but he hesitated.
He did not wish to lie down once more by the side
of his dead wife, and went into the cowshed.
Uneasy dreams pursued him ; he dreamt that his
dead wife was trying to force herself into the
cowshed. He got up and looked into the stable.
Slimakowa was lying there peacefully ; two faint
beams of light were reflected from the eyes which
had not yet been closed.

A sledge stopped at the gate and Gryb came into
the yard ; his grey head shook and his yellowish

THE OUTPOST 221

eyes moved uneasily. He was followed by his man,
who was carrying a large basket.

' I am to blame,' he cried, striking his chest,
' are you still angry with me ? '

' God give you all that you desire,' said Slimak,
bowing low, ' you are coming to me in my time of
trouble.'

This humility pleased the old peasant ; he
grasped Slimak's hand and said in a more natural
voice : * I tell you, I am to blame, for his Reverence
told me to say that. Therefore I am the first to
make it up with you, although I am the elder. But
I must say, neighbour, you did annoy me very
much. However, I will not reproach you.'

* Forgive me the wrong I have done,' said Slimak,
bending towards his shoulder, ' but to tell you the
truth, I cannot remember ever having wronged
you personally.'

' I won't mince matters, Slimak. You dealt
with those railway people without consulting me.'

' Look at what I have earned by my trading,'
said Slimak, pointing to his burnt homestead.

' Well, God has punished you heavily, and that
is why I say : I am to blame. But when you came
to church and your wife — God rest, her eternally
— bought herself a silk kerchief, you ought to
have treated me to at least a pint of vodka,
instead of speaking impertinently to me.'

' It 's true, I boasted too early.'

' And then you made friends with the Germans
,and prayed with them.'

' I only took off my cap. Their God is the same
as ours.'

Gryb shook his clenched fist in his face.

' What ! their God is the same as ours ? I tell

222 THE OUTPOST

you, he must be a different God, or why should they
jabber to him in German ? But never mind/ he
changed his tone, ' all that 's past and gone. You
deserve well of us, because you did not let the
Germans have your land. Hamer has already
offered me his farm for midsummer.'

' Is that so ? '

' Of course it is so. The scoundrels threatened
to drive us all away, and they have smashed them-
selves against a small gospodarz of ten acres.
You deserve God's blessing and our friendship for
that. God rest your dead wife eternally ! Many
a time has she set you against me ! I'll bear her
no grudge on that account, however. And here,
you see, all of us in the village are sending you
some victuals.'

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival
of Grochowski.

' I wouldn't believe Jonah, when he came to tell
me all this,' he said, ' and you here, Gryb, too ?
Where is the defunct ? '

They approached to the stable and knelt down
in the snow. Only the murmuring of their prayers
and Slimak's sobs were audible for a while. Then
the men got up and praised the dead woman's
virtues.

' I am bringing you a bird,' then said Grochow-
ski, turning to Gryb ; * he is slightly wounded.'

* What do you mean ? '

' It's your Jasiek. He attempted to steal my
horses last night, and I treated him to a little lead.',

' Where is he ? '

' In the sledge outside.'

Gryb ran off at a heavy trot. Blows and cries
were heard, then the old man reappeared, dragging

THE OUTPOST 223

his son by the hair. The strong young fellow was
crying like a child. He looked dishevelled and his
clothes were torn ; a bloodstained cloth was tied
round his hand.

' Did you steal the Soltys' horses ? ' shouted
his father.

* How should I not have stolen them ? I did
steal them ! '

' Not quite,' said Grochowski, ' but he did steal
Slimak's.'

' What ? ' cried Gryb, and began to lay on to
his son again.

' I did, father. Leave off ! ' wailed Jasiek.

' My God, how did this come about ? ' asked the
old man.

' That 's simple enough.' sneered Grochowski,
* he found others as bad as himself, and they robbed
the whole neighbourhood, till I winged him.'

' What do you propose to do now ? ' asked old
Giyb between his blows.

' I'll mend my ways.' . . . ' I'll marry
Orzchewski's daughter,' wailed Jasiek.

' Perhaps this is not quite the moment for
that,' said Grochowski, ' first you will go to
prison.'

' You don't mean to charge him ? ' asked his
father.

' I should prefer not to charge him, but the
whole neighbourhood is indignant about the
robberies. However, as he did not do me per-
sonally any harm, I am not bound to charge him.'

' What will you take ? '

' Not a kopek less than a hundred and fifty
roubles.'

* In that case, let him go to prison.'

224 THE OUTPOST

' A hundred and fifty to me, and eighty to Slimak
for the horses.'

Gryb took to his fists again.

' Who put you up to this ? '

' Leave off ! ' cried Jasiek ; ' it was Josel.'

' And why did you do as he told you ? '

' Because I owe him a hundred roubles.'

' Oh Lord ! ' groaned Gryb, tearing his hair.

1 Well, that 's nothing to tear your hair about,'
said Grochowski. ' Come ; three hundred and
thirty roubles between Slimak, Josel, and me ;
what is that to you ? '

' I won't pay it.'

' All right ! In that case he will go to prison.
Come along.' He took the youth by the arm.

4 Dad, have pity, I am your only son ! '

The old man looked helplessly at the peasants
in turn.

' Are you going to ruin my life for a paltry sum ? '

* Wait . . . wait,' cried Gryb, seeing that the
Soltys was in earnest. He took Slimak aside.

' Neighbour, if there is to be peace between
us,' he said, ' I'll tell you what you will have
to do.'

' What ? '

' You'll have to marry my sister. You are a
widower, she is a widow. You have ten acres, she
has fifteen. I shall take her land, because it is
close to mine, and give you fifteen acres of Hamer's
land. You will have a gospodarstwo of twenty-five
acres all in one piece.'

Slimak reflected for a while.

' I think,' he said a't last, ' Gawdrina's land is
better than Hamer's.'

' All right ! You shall have a bit more.*

THE OUTPOST 225

Slimak scratched his head. ' Well, I don't
know,' he said.

* It 's agreed, then,' said Gryb, ' and now I'll tell
you what you will have to do in return. You will
pay a hundred and fifty roubles to Grochowski
and a hundred to Josel.'

Slimak demurred.

* I haven't buried my wife yet.'
The old man's temper w s rising.

' Rubbish ! don't be a fool ! How can a gospo-
darz get along without a wife ? Yours is dead and
gone, and if she could speak, she would say :
" Marry, Josef, and don't turn up your nose at
a benefactor like Gryb." 3

* What are you quarrelling about ? ' cried
Grochowski.

' Look here, I am offering him my sister and
fifteen acres of land, four cows and a pair of horses,
to say nothing of the household property, and he
can't make up his mind,' said Gryb, with a wry face.

' Why, that 's certainly worth while,' said Gro-
chowski, ' and not a bad wife ! '

' Aye, a good, hefty woman,' cried Gryb.

' You'll be quite a gentleman, Slimak,' added
Grochowski.

Slimak sighed. ' I'm sorry,' he said, * that
Jagna did not live to see this.'

The agreement was carried out, and before Holy
Week both Slimak and Gryb's sen were married.
By the autumn Slimak's new gospodarstwo was
finished, and an addition to his family expected,
His second wife not unfrequently reminded him
that he had been a beggar and owed all his good
fortune to her. At such times he would slip out of

230 T

226 THE OUTPOST

the house, He under the lonely pine and meditate,
recalling the strange struggle, when the Germans
had lost their land and he his nearest and dearest.

When everybody else had forgotten Slimakowa,
Stasiek, Maciek, and the child, he often remem-
bered them, and also the dog Burek and the cow
doomed to the butcher's knife for want of fodder.

Silly Zoska died in prison, old Sobieska at the
inn. The others with whom my story is concerned,
not excepting old Jonah, are alive and well.

A PINCH OF SALT

BY

ADAM SZ YMiNSKI ' V*

IT was in the fourth year of my exile to the
metropolis of the Siberian frosts, a few days before
Christmas, when one of our comrades and fellow-
sufferers, a former student at the university of
Kiev, who hailed from Little-Russia, called in to
give us some interesting news. One of his intimate
friends — also an ex-student and fellow-sufferer —
was to pass through our town on his way back from
a far-distant Yakut aul,1 where he had lived for
three years : he was due to arrive on Christmas
Eve.

We had repeatedly met people who knew the
life in the nearer Yakut settlements ; now and
then we had seen temporary or permanent in-
habitants of the so-called Yakut ' towns ' of
Vjerchojansk, Vilujsk, and Kalymsk. But the
nearer auls and towns were populous centres of
human life in comparison to those far-off deserted
and desolate places ; they gave one no conception
of what the latter might be like. Certainly the
fact that the worst criminals, when they were sent
to those regions, preferred to return to hard labour
rather than live in liberty there, gave us an

1 Aul : a hamlet.

228 A PINCH OF SALT

illustration of the charms of that life, yet it told
us nothing definite.

Bad — we were told — very bad it was out there,
but in what way bad it was impossible to judge,
even from the knowledge we had of life in less
remote regions. Who would venture to draw con-
clusions from the little we knew as to the thousand
small details which made up that grey, monotonous
existence ? Who could clearly bring them before
the imagination ? Only experience could reveal
them in their appalling nakedness. Of one thing
we were certain, that was that in a measure as the
populousness decreases, and you move away in
a centrifugal direction from where we were/ life
becomes harder and more and more distressing for
human beings. In the south, on the wild high
plateaus of the Aldon ; in the east, on the moun-
tain slopes of the Stanovoi-Chebret, where a single
Tungus family constitutes the sole population
along a river of 300 versts ; in the west on the
desolate heights of the Viluj, near the great Zeresej
Lake ; in the north at the mysterious outlets of the
Quabrera, the desert places of the Olensk, Indi-
girika, and Kolyma, life becomes like a Danteesque
hell, consisting in nothing but ice, snow and gales,
and lighted up by the lurid blood-red rays of the
northern light.

But no ! those deserts, equal in extent to the
half of Europe, are only the purgatory, not yet the
real Siberian hell. You still find woods there, poor,
thin, dwarfed woods, it is true, but where there is
wood there is fire and vitality. The true hell of
human torture begins beyond the line of the woods ;
then there is nothing but ice and snow ; ice that
does not even melt in the plains in summer — and

A PINCH OF SALT 229

in the midst of that icy desert, miserable human
beings thrown upon this shore by an alien fate.
******

I shall never forget the impression which any
chance bit of information on the characteristic
features, the horrible details of that life, used to
make upon me. Even clearly denned facts and
exact technical terms bear quite a different aspect
in the light of such unusual local conditions.

I have a vivid remembrance of a story told me
by a former official ; he described to me how when
he was stationed in Y. as Ispravnik, ' a certain
gentleman ' was sent out to him with orders to
take him to the settlement in Zaszyversk.1

' You see, little brother,' said the ex-Ispravnik,
'the town of Zaszyversk does exist. Even on a
small map of Siberia you can easily find it to the
right of a large blank space ; if you remember your
geography lessons you will even know that it is
designated as " town out of governmental bounds ".
An appointment to such a place means for an
official that he is expected to send in his resigna-
tion ; as for the towns, it means that they have
been degraded by having ceased to be the seat of
certain local government. In this case there was
a yet deeper significance in the description, for the
town of Zaszyversk does, as I said, exist, but only
in the imagination of cartographers and in geo-
graphy manuals, not in reality. So much so is it
non-existent that not a single 'house, not a yurta,2
not a hovel marks the place which is pointed out
to you on the map. When I read the order I could
not believe my eyes, and though I was sober

1 Pronounce : Zashiversk.

2 Yurta : hut of the native Yakut.

230 A PINCH OF SALT

I reeled. I called another official and showed him
the curious document.

' He was an old, experienced hand at the office,
but when he saw this order, the paper dropped from
his hands. " Where to ? " I asked. " To Zaszy-
versk ! " We looked at each other. Nice things
that young man, ,must have been up to ! There he
stood, looked and listened and understood nothing.

1 He was a handsome fellow but gloomy and
stuck up. I asked him one thing after another,
was he in need of anything ? and so on, but he
answered nothing but " Yes " or " No ". Well, my
little brother, I thought to myself, you will soon
sing a different tune ! I ordered three troikas to
be brought round ; he was put into the first with
the Cossack who escorted him, I was in the second
with an old Cossack, who remembered where this
town of Zaszyversk had once stood, and the third
contained provisions ; then we started. First we
drove straight on for twenty-four hours ; during
this time we still stopped at stations where we
changed horses, and we covered 200 versts. The
second and third days we covered 150 versts, but we
did not meet a living soul, and we spent the nights
in the large barnlike buildings without windows
or chimneys and with only a fireplace, which are
found on the road ; they are called " povarnia ".

' Our prisoner was obviously beginning to feel
rather bad, so he addressed me from time to time ;
at last he tried to get information out of me con-
cerning the life in Zaszyversk. " How many
inhabitants were there ? what was the town like ?
was there any chance of his finding something to
do there, perhaps private lessons ? " But now it was
my turn to answer him : " Yes " or " No ". On the

A PINCH OF SALT 231

fourth day, towards morning, we entered upon
a glacier. We had arrived in the region where the
ice does not disappear even in summer. When
we had advanced ten versts on the ice, the old
Cossack showed me the place where sixty years ago
a few yurtas had stood which were called in geo-
graphical terms "Zaszyversk, town out of govern-
mental bounds".

' " Stop," I cried, " let the young gentleman get
out ; here we are ! This is the town of Zaszy-
versk. ..."

' The man did not understand at once, he opened
his eyes wide and thought it was a joke, or that
I had lost my reason. I had to explain the
situation to him. ... At last he understood.'

The ex-Ispravnik laughed dryly. ' Will you
believe me or not ? ' he continued. { Look here,
I swear by the cross ' — he crossed himself spa-
ciously, bowing to the images of the saints — ' that
fellow's eyes became glassy . . . his jaws chattered
as in a fever. It was a business !

' And I, a tough old official, I put my hands to
my forehead. You should have seen how the
gentleman's pride disappeared in a moment ; he
became soft as wax and so humble . . . pliable as
silk he was !

" I adjureyouby the wounds of Christ, "he cried,
stretching out his hands to me, " let the love of
God come into your heart ! I have not been con-
demned to death, there is nothing very serious
against me, I have been too overbearing, that is all."
" Oh," I said, "well, you see, pride is a great sin."

' And whether you will believe me or won't ' — he
crossed himself again — ' the man wept like a child
when I told him I would take him to the nearest

232 A PINCH OF SALT

Yakut yurta, at a distance of thirty versts from
the town of Zaszyversk, and I swear to you for the
third time it was with joy that he wept .". . although
he was not much better off in that yurta. . . .'
******

It is easy to imagine how eagerly we received the
news of the arrival of a man who had actually been
living somewhere at the end of the world under
conditions which had completely isolated him for
three whole years ; yet it was said that he was
returning into this world sound in body and mind.
We inhabitants of our own special town were not
living in the most enviable of circumstances either,
but we all knew that they were infinitely happier
than they might have been.

A passionate desire seized us to look upon that
life out there in its unveiled nakedness, its horrible
cruelty. This curiosity meant more than narrow
selfishness ; it had a special reason.

The fact that a human being had been able to
survive in that far-distant world, bore witness to
the strength and resistance of the human spirit ;
the iron will and energy of the one doubled and
steeled the strength of all the others.

What we had heard so far of those who were
battling with their fate at the end of the world
had not been too comforting. Therefore the ques-
tion whether and how one could live and suffer
there, was a vital one for us.

And now the news came unexpectedly that one
of our own class, a man closely allied to us by his
intellectual development and a number of ways and
customs, had actually lived for three years in
a yurta not much better situated than the one
behind the imaginary town of Zaszyversk. This

A PINCH OF SALT 233

unknown youth, student of a university not our
own, became dear to us. We all — Russians, Poles,
and Jews — bound together by our common fate,
made up our minds to celebrate his arrival, and as
it was timed for Christmas Eve, we were going to
prepare a solemn feast in his honour.

As I was the one who had the greatest experience
in culinary affairs, I was charged with the arrange-
ment of the dinner, supported by a young student,
and by the intense interest of the whole colony.
I am sure that neither I nor my dear scullion have
ever in our lives before or after worked as hard for
two days in the kitchen as we did then.

The student was not only a great collector of
everything useful for our daily life, he was also
deeply versed in the knowledge of the Yakut in
general. While we were cooking and roasting we
told one another the most interesting things, and
thus stimulated each other to such a degree that the
dinner, originally planned on simple lines, began
to assume Lucullian dimensions.

We knew only too well how miserable the life
in the nearest Yakut yurtas was, that there was
a want of the most necessary European food, such
as would be found in the poorest peasant's home ;
above all, the want of bread — simple daily bread —
was very pronounced among the poorer popula-
tions. It was not surprising that we two, possessed
by gloomy pictures which we recalled to our
memory, fell into a sort of cooking-fever. Like
a mother who remembers the favourite dishes of
the child she has not seen for a long time, and whom
she expects home on a certain day, we kept on
racking our brains for agreeable surprises for our
guest. One or the other would constantly ask :
13

234 A PINCH OF SALT

* What do you think, comrade, wouldn't he like
this or that ? '

* Well, of course, he would thoroughly enjoy
that. Just think, counting the journeys, it must
be a good five years since he has eaten food fit for
human beings.'

' Shall we add that ? '

' All right ! '

And one of us ran to the market-place to fetch
the necessary ingredients from the shops, another
secured kitchen utensils, and soon another course
enriched the menu. At last the supply of kitchen
utensils gave out, and want of time as well as
physical exhaustion put a stop to further exertions.
Our enthusiasm had communicated itself to all the
participants of the feast, for they were all of a
responsive disposition, and declared themselves
charmed with our inventiveness and energy. I and
my scullion were proud of our work. A huge fish,
weighing twenty pounds, which after much trouble
we had succeeded in boiling whole, was considered
the crowning success of our labour and art. We
rightly anticipated that this magnificent fish, pre-
pared with an appallingly highly seasoned and salted
sauce, would move the hardest hearts. Also, we
did not forget a small Christmas tree, and de-
corated it as best we could in honour of our guest.
******

At last the longed-for day came. The student
started at dawn for the nearest posting station to
await the newcomer and bring him to us. Before
two o'clock, when it began to be dark, we were all
assembled, and soon after two the melancholy
sound of the sleighbells announced the arrival of
the students. We hurriedly pulled on our furs and

A PINCH OF SALT 235

went out. The sleigh and the travellers were en-
tirely covered with snow, long icicles hung from
the horses' nostrils when they whipped into the
courtyard, they were covered with a fine crust of
ice. Another moment and they stood still in front
of the door. Every man bared his head . . . there
were some who had grown grey in misery and

sorrow.

******

I will not describe our first greeting — I could not
do so even if I would. We did not know each other,
and yet how near we felt ! I doubt whether it will
ever "fall to my share again to be one of a number
of human beings so different in birth and station
in life, yet so nearly related, so closely tied to each
other as we were on the day when we greeted our
guest.

He was small and thin — very thin. His com-
plexion showed yellow and black, much more than
ours did ; he seemed marked for life by an earthen
colour ; his deeply sunk eyes were the only feature
which was burning with vitality, they had a
phosphorescent glow.

It had grown quite dark by the time he had
changed his clothes and warmed himself, and we
were sitting down to our dinner. Noise and
vivacity predominated in our small abode ; a
cheerful mood rose like an overflowing wave,
washing away all signs of sorrow and bitterness.

' Let us be cheerful ! '

Louder and louder this cry arose, now here, now
there, and when our guest took it up even the
gloomiest faces brightened. We broke the sacred
wafer, then we emptied the first glasses. My
industrious scullion had been deeply moved by

236 A PINCH OF SALT

a folk-song from the Ukraine, one of those songs
rich in poetical feeling and simple metaphor which
go straight to the heart ; he therefore got up to
make the welcoming speech, and, encouraged by
the tears of joy which rose in the ^eyes of our guest,
he quite took possession of him. He told him that
he and I had worked uninterruptedly for two days
and nights in the sweat of our brows, so as to give
him a noble repast after his many days of priva-
tion and hunger ; he forecast the whole menu,
beginning with his favourite Kutja, he drew close
to him and put his arm round his neck, laughing
gaily, and seemingly inspiring him so that he wept
tears of joy.

Our animated mood rose higher and higher.
A storm of applause greeted the first course. The
student filled the guest's plate to the brim. At
last the harmonious rattle of the spoons replaced
the laughing and talking. * Excellent,' was the
universal verdict.

My scullion was in raptures and loudly assented ;
finally he too became silent and applied himself
like us to his plate.

But what in the name of God did this mean ?
We were all eating, only our guest fumbled about
with his spoon and stirred his soup without eating,
laughing the while with a suppressed, hardly
audible laugh.

' My God, what is it ? why don't you eat, com-
rade ? ' several voices called in unison. ' The scul-
lion has been exciting him too much ! Off with him !
Our guest must have serious people next to him.'

The student obediently changed places, and we
turned to our food again. But still our guest did
not eat.

A PINCH OF SALT 237

What was the matter ? We stopped eating and
all eyes were turned questioningly upon him. Our
silent anxiety was sufficiently eloquent. He per-
ceived, felt it and said :

4 1 ... forgive me ... I ... my happiness . . .
I am so sorry ... I do not want to trouble you, and
I fear I shall spoil your pleasure. I beg you . . .
I entreat you, dear brothers, take no notice of me
... it is nothing, it will pass/ and he broke into
a strange sobbing laugh.

' Jesus, Mary ! ' we all cried, for we had not
noticed before how unnatural his laugh was ;
there was no further thought of eating ; and he,
when he saw the general anxiety, mastered himself
with an effort and said rapidly amidst the general
silence :

' I thought you knew what the life was like that
I have lived for three years, but I see you don't
know it ; when I realized this I tried ... I ... well,
I tried while you were eating and drinking to
swallow a small piece of bread . . . just a tiny piece
of bread . . . but I cannot do it ... I cannot ! You
see, for three years . . . three whole years I have
tasted no salt ... I ate all my food without salt,
and this bread is rather salt — very salt in fact, it
is burning and scorching me, and probably all the
other things are also very salt.'

' Certainly, some were even salted too much in
our haste and eagerness,' I answered simultan-
eously with the student.

' Well then, eat, beloved brothers, eat, but I
cannot eat anything ; I shall watch you with great
pleasure — eat, I beg you fervently ! ' and with
hysterical laughter and tears he sank back into
his seat.

238 A PINCH OF SALT

Now we understood this laugh which was like
a spasm. . . .

Not one of us was able to swallow the food which
he had in his mouth.

The misery of the existence of which we had
longed to know something had lifted the veil off
a small portion of its mysteries.

We all dropped our spoons and hung our heads.

How vain, how small appeared to us now the
trouble we had taken about the food, how clumsy
our childish enjoyment !

And while we looked at the ravaged face of our
brother, convulsed with spasmodic laughter and
tears, a feeling of horror seized upon us. . . .

We felt as if the spectre of death had risen from
a lonely yurta somewhere behind the lost town of
Zaszyversk and was staring at us with cold glassy
eyes. . . .

A dead silence brooded over the frightened
assembly.

KOWALSKI THE CARPENTER

A SIBERIAN SKETCH

BY
ADAM SZYMANSKI

I MADE his acquaintance accidentally ; the
chance which led to it was caused by the peculiar
conditions of the Yakut spring. My readers will
probably only have a very imperfect knowledge of
the Yakut spring.

From the middle of April onwards the sun
begins to be pretty powerful in Yakutsk ; in May
it hardly* leaves the horizon for a few hours and is
roasting hot ; but as long as the great Lena has
not thrown off the shackles of winter, and as long
as the huge masses of unmelted snow are lying in
the taiga,1 you can see no trace of spring. The
snow is not warmed by the earth, which has been
frozen hard to the depth of several feet, and this
thick crust of ice opposes determined resistance
to the lifegiving rays, and only after long, patient
labour does the sun succeed in awakening to new
life the secret depths of the taiga and the queen of
Yakut waters, ' Granny Lena ', as the Yakut calls
the great river.

In the last days of the month of May, when this
battle of vitalizing warmth against the last

1 Primaeval forest.

240 KOWALSKI THE CARPENTEK

remnants of the cruel winter is nearing its end,
the newly arrived European witnesses a scene
which is without parallel anywhere in the west.
Every sound resembling a report, however distant
and indistinct, has a wonderful effect upon the
people out in the open ; children and the aged,
men and women are suddenly rooted to the spot,
turn to the east towards the river, crane their
necks and seem to be listening for something.

If the peculiar sounds cease or turn out to be
caused accidentally, everybody quietly goes home.
But if the reports continue, and swell to such
dimensions that the air seems filled with a noise
like the firing of great guns or the rolling of
thunder, accompanied by subterranean rushing
like the coming of a great gale, then these silent
people become unusually animated. Joyful
shouts of ' The ice is cracking ! the river is breaking !
do you hear ? ' are heard from all sides ; eagerly
and noisily the people run in all directions to carry
the news into the farthest cottages. Everybody
knocks at the doors he passes, be they his friends'
or a stranger's ; and calls out the magic word
' The Lena is breaking ! ' These words spread like
wildfire in many tongues through far-off houses,
yurtas and Yakut settlements, and whoever is able
to move puts on his furs and runs to the banks of
the Lena.

A dense crowd is thronging the banks, watching
in fascination one of the most beautiful natural
phenomena in Siberia.

Gigantic blocks of ice, driven down by the
powerful waves of the broad river, are packed to
the height of houses — of mountains ; they break,
they crash ; covered with myriads of small needles

KOWALSKI THE CARPENTER 241

of ice, they seem to be floating in the sun, display
ing a marvellous wealth of colour.

But one must have lived here for at least one
winter to understand what it is that drives this
crowd of human beings to the river banks. It is
not the magnificent display of nature that attracts
them.

In the long struggle against winter these people
have exhausted all their strength ; for many
months they have been awaiting the vivifying
warmth with longing and impatience, now they
hasten hither to witness the triumph of the sun
over the cruel enemy.

An intense, almost childlike joy is depicted on
the yellow faces of the Yakuts, their broad lips smile
good-naturedly and appear broader still, their
little black eyes glow like coals. The whole crowd
is swaying as if intoxicated. ' God be praised !
God be praised ! ' they call to each other, turn
towards the huge icebergs which are now being
destroyed by the friendly element, and shout and
rejoice over the defeat of the merciless enemy,
driven, crushed and annihilated by the inexorable
waves.

When the ice-drifts on the Lena have come to an
end, the earth quickly thaws, although only to a
depth of two feet. But nature makes the most of
the three months of warmth. Within a com-
paratively short time everything develops and
unfolds.

The great plain of Yakutsk offers a charming
spectacle ; it is fertile, and here and there cultiva-
tion already begins to show. Birchwoods, small
lakes, brushwood and verdant fields alternate and
make the whole country look like a large park,

242 KOWALSKI THE CARPENTER

framed by the silver ribbon of the Lena. The
surrounding gloom of the taiga emphasizes the
natural beauty of the valley. This smiling plain
in the midst of the wide expanse reminds one of an
oasis in the desert.

The Yakut is by far the most capable of the
Siberian tribes ; he values the gifts of the life-
giving sun and enjoys them to the full. When he
escapes from his narrow, stinking winter-yurta he
fills his hitherto inhospitable country with life and
movement ; his energy is doubled, his vitality
pulsates with greater strength and intensity.
When the ' Ysech ', the feast of spring, is over, the
animated mood of the population does not abate
in the least. The ' strengthening kumis ', the
ambrosia of the Yakut gods, does not run dry
in the wooden vessels, for luxuriant grass covers
the ground, and cows and mares give abundant
milk.

The sight of the lovely plain and the joyful human
beings delighting in the summer had revived me
also. This was my first summer in Yakutsk, and I
responded to it with my whole being. Daily
I went for walks to look at the beauty of the
surrounding world, daily I took my sun bath.
******

My walks usually led me to one of the Yakut
yurtas ; they are at long distances from each other,
lonely and scattered over the whole country. You
find them in whatever direction you may choose.

Cold milk and kumis can be had in all these
yurtas. It is true both have the nasty smell which
the stranger in this part of the world calls ' Yakut
odour ' ; but during the long winter when milk
other than from Yakut yurtas was hard- to procure,

KOWALSKI THE CARPENTER 243

I had got used to this specific smell, so that now it
only produced a mild nausea.

One of the many yurtas had taken my fancy, for
it was charmingly situated close to the woods in
a corner of the raised banks of a long stretch of
lake. It belonged to an aged Yakut, well deserv-
ing of the honourable designation ' ohonior ',
given to all the Yakut elders.

The old man was living there with his equally
aged wife and a young fellow, a distant relation of
his. Two cows and a calf, a few mares and a foal
constituted all their wealth.

All the Yakuts ^re very inquisitive and loqua-
cious. But my friend, the honourable ' ohonior ',
possessed these qualities in an unusually high
degree, and as he was able to speak broken Russian,
I often took occasion to call in for a little talk.

First of all he wished to know who I was, where
I came from and what was my business here.
Towards the Russians, whether strangers or natives
of Siberia, the Yakuts are always on their guard
and excessively obsequious. Every Russian,
however poorly dressed, is always the ' tojan ',
the master. Their behaviour towards the Poles, on
the other hand, is very friendly. No Yakut ever
took the information that I was not a Russian but
a c Bilak ' — Polak — with indifference.

, ' Bilak ? Bilak ? Excellent brother ! ' exclaimed
even the most reticent among them. The ' ohonior '
and I therefore soon became friends, and when he
learned that in addition I was versed in the art
of writing and might be employed as secretary to
the community and draw up petitions to the
' great master ' — the ' gubernator ' — my value was
immensely increased, and this respect saved me from

244 KOWALSKI THE CARPENTER

too great an intimacy. Owing to this consideration
I was always offered the best milk and kumis, and
when the old woman handed me a jug she carefully
wiped it with her fingers first, or removed every
trace of dirt with her tongue.

One day when I called in passing to drink my
kumis, I found the ' ohonior ' unusually excited ;
he was not only talkative, but also in very great
spirits. His tongue was a little heavy, although he
showed no sign of old age. It turned out that my
honourable host had just returned from the town,
where he had indulged in vodka to warm his feeble
frame.

' The Bilaks are good, are all good,' he stam-
mered, while he crammed his little pipe with to-
bacco, ' every Bilak is a clerk, or at least a doctor,
or even a smith, as good as a Yakut one. You
are a good man too, and you must be a good clerk ;
we all love the Bilaks, a Sacha x never forgets that
the Bilak is his brother. But will you believe
it, brother, it is not long since this is so ? I myself
was afraid of the Bilaks as of evil spirits until
about fifteen years ago, and yet I am so old that the
calves have grazed off the meadows seventy times
before my eyes. When I saw a Bilak, I would run
like a hare wherever my feet would carry me — into
the wood or into the bushes, never mind where, so
long as I could escape from him.

And not only I but everybody dreaded the
Bilaks, for, you see, people told each other dread-
ful things about them, that they had horns and
slew everybody, and so on.'

I ascertained that these fairy-tales had had
their origin in the town, and reproached the old

1 The name by which the Yakuts call themselves.

KOWALSKI THE CARPENTER 245

man for his credulity, but he bridled up at
once.

' Goodness gracious ! do you think we believed
all that on ^hearsay ? I don't know about other
people, but I and all my neighbours believed it
because our forefathers knew for certain that every
Bilak was terrible and dangerous.'

The old man refreshed himself from the jug and
continued :

' Do you see, it was like this. My father was not
yet born, my grandfather was a little fellow for whom
they were still collecting the " Kalym " * when there
came to this neighbourhood a Bilak with eyes of
ice,2 a long beard and long moustaches ; he settled
here, not in the valley but up on yonder mountain-
side in the taiga. That was not taiga, as you see it
now, but thick and wild, untouched by any axe.
There the Bilak found an empty yurta and settled
in it. i

' But he had no sooner gone to live there than
the taiga became impassable at a distance of ten
versts round the cottage. The Bilak ran about
with his gun in his hand, and when he caught sight
of anyone he covered him with his gun, and unless
the man ran away he would pop at him — but not
for fun, he didn't mind whom he shot, even if it
were a Cossack. What he lived on ? The gods of
the taiga know ! Nobody else did. Every living
thing shunned him like the plague. Those who
caught sight of him in the forest when he ran about
like a devil said that at first he wore clothes such

1 The price for the future wife which is paid in cattle
and horses ; it is collected early in the boy's life.

2 The black-eyed Yakuts speak thus of the blue-eyed
races.

246 KOWALSKI THE CARPENTER

as the Russian gentlemen wear who know how
to write, but later on he was dressed in skins which
he must have tanned himself. People said he got
to look more and more terrible and wild. His
beard grew down to his waist, his face got paler
and paler and his eyes burnt like flames. Some
years passed. Then one winter, at the time of the
worst frosts, when a murderous " chijus " broke,1
he was not seen for several days. As a rule he had
been observed from a distance, so the people gave
notice in the town that someone should come and
ascertain what had happened to him.

' They came and closed in upon the cottage care-
fully. There was the Bilak on the bed in his furs,
all covered with snow, and in his hand he held
a cross. The Bilak was dead ; perhaps hunger had
killed him, perhaps the frost, or maybe the devil
had taken him. Now tell me, was there no reason
for us to be afraid of the Bilaks ? Here was only
a single one who drove all the neighbourhood to
flight, and now all of a sudden a great many of
you arrived ? He ! he ! he ! You know how to
write, brother, but you are yet very young! So
you thought people had no good reasons for their
fears ? Well, you see, you were mistaken. A
Sacha is cleverer than he looks ! '

******

This legend of a Pole who could not bear to look
upon human beings — a legend I repeatedly heard
again later — made a deep impression upon me.
These woods, these fields where I was walking
now had perhaps been haunted by the unfortunate
man, driven mad and wild with excess of sorrow.

1 A column of frozen air, moving southwards. After
a chijus corpses of frozen people are generally found.

KOWALSKI THE CARPENTER 247

Had his troubles been beyond endurance or had
he been unable to bear the sight of human wicked-
ness and human misery ? Or was it the separation
from his home, from those dear to him, that had
broken him ?

Dominated altogether by these thoughts, I
returned to the town without paying heed to any-
thing around me. I was walking fast, almost at a
run, when a long-drawn call coming from some-
where close by struck upon my ear :

' Kallarra ! Kallarra ! '

At first I neither understood the call nor whence
it came, but on frequent repetition it dawned upon
me that it proceeded from the bushes at a little
distance in front of me, and that it was meant to be
the Yakut call ' Come here, come here, brother ! '
I even divined, as I came nearer, what manner of
man it was that was calling. No Yakut, no Russian,
be he a native or a settler, could have mispro-
nounced this Yakut word so badly ; it should have
been ' Kelere ! '

Only my countrymen, the Masurs, could do such
violence to the beautiful, sonorous Yakut language.
During my long sojourn in Yakutsk I have never
met a Masurian peasant who pronounced this
word otherwise than ' Kallarra '.

Indeed, there he was, behind the bushes beyond
a bridge spanning the marsh or dried-up arm of the
Lena — a man in the ordinary clothes of deported
criminals ; he agitated his arms violently, and
continually repeated his call ' Kallarra ' !

This was addressed to a Yakut who became
visible on the outskirts of the brushwood, but it
was in vain, for the wary Yakut had no intention
of drawing nearer. The caller must have realized

248 KOWALSKI THE CARPENTER

this, for when he arrived at the bridge he called
once more ' Kal are ! you dog ! ' Then he ceased
and only swore to himself : ' May you burst, may
you swell, you son of a dog ! '

When he noticed me, he stood still. I came up
to him and greeted him in Polish, ' Praised be
Jesus Christ ! '

The peasant could not get over his amazement.

' Oh Jesus ! where do you come from, sir ? '
he cried.

We soon made friends. He lived somewhere
in an uluse,1 and had gone into the town to hire
himself out for work in the gold mines ; he had
secured work and was to start at once, driving a
herd of cattle to his new abode. He was grazing
them when I met him, and as some of them had
gone astray, and he was unable to drive them all
across the bridge singlehanded, he was waiting
for someone to come along and help him. I gladly
lent him a hand, and when the herd had been got
across the bridge and was quietly going along, we
began to talk. I asked him with whom he was
lodging.

' With Kowalski,' he said.

I knew all the Poles in Yakutsk, but I had never
heard of Kowalski.

' Well, I mean Kowalski the carpenter.'

Still I did not know whom he meant.

' Who are his friends ? whom does he go to see ? '
I inquired.

' He is peculiar. They all know him, but he does
not go to see them.'

' How do you mean : he does not go to see them ? '

' How should he go to see them ? He has got
1 A settlement consisting of several yurtas.

KOWALSKI THE CARPENTER 249

clump feet, he has lost his toes with frostbite.
When the wounds are closed he can just manage,
but when they are open he cannot even move about
'in his room.'

' How does he manage to live ? '

1 He does a little carpentering ; he has a
beautiful workshop and all sorts of tools, but I tell
you when he can't stand on his feet he can't do
carpentering. Then he is glad when people come
and give him orders for brushes — he can make
beautiful brushes as well — for sweeping rooms or
for brushing clothes. But the rooms here are not
swept much, and people rarely brush their clothes
either. Now he is ill again.'

' Where does he come from ? How long has he
been here ? '

' He has been here a long time, there were only
a few like us when he came. But where he comes
from, who he is — I see you don't know Kowalski,
or else you wouldn't ask. For you see, when
I ask him, or one of the gentlemen, or even the
priest, who comes from Irkutsk, he only answers :
" Brother, God knows very well who I am and where
I come from, but it serves no purpose and is quite
unnecessary that you should know it too ! " There
you are ! That 's like him. So nobody asks him.'

I inquired very particularly all the same where
Kowalski lived. In my imagination the ' Bilak ' of
the legend who fled from men and this lonely
carpenter were blended into one personality, I
could not say why. I felt that t^ere must be a
mysterious connexion as between all things
repeating themselves in the circle of time. Perhaps
the great sorrow which — I imagined— had died at
the death of the Bilak was still living on quite

250 KOWALSKI THE CAEPENTER

close to me, in a different shape, but just as great,
no less unbearable and fateful to him in whom it
now dwelt.

******

Since that day I had often guided my steps in the
direction of Kowalski's yurta. No fresh shavings
were added to the old ones lying about near the
door and the little windows. They grew drier and
blacker every day ; perhaps the man who had
thrown them there. ... I had not the courage to
enter. I kept on waiting for another day when
perhaps fresh shavings would be added, but none
appeared and no noises of work were audible.

At last I made up my mind not to put it off any
longer. I left my home with this decision and had
already reached a corner of his yurta, when I heard
a trembling, weak but pleasant voice singing.

I sat down on the bench in front of the yurta, and
I could distinctly hear every word of a sentimental,
gently melancholy little ditty which had once been
very popular in Poland :

' When the fields are fresh and green,
And the spring revives the world.'

But after the third verse the singing suddenly
ceased and a voice called out gloomily :
' Doggy, go and bark at the Almighty ! '
At first I did not know what this peculiar com-
mand meant, but after a short pause I heard the
thin bark of a dog, and as the gate of the enclosure
was open I drew nearer and saw in the wide open
door of the yurta a small black dog, tiny and
light, repeatedly raising itself on its hindlegs and
barking up at the blue sky while it jumped and
turned about.

KOWALSKI THE CARPENTER 251

Of course I went away and put off my visit to

a more suitable occasion.

******

At last I saw him. He was of middle stature,
quite greyheaded, and he looked very neglected.
The ashen complexion common to all exiles
distinguished him in a high degree, so that it
gave me pain to look into his face with the black
shadows.

If he had not been talking, and moving about, it
would have been hard to guess that one was
looking at a living being. And yet, glances like
lightning would sometimes dart from the Jarge
eyes surrounded by broad, dark circles, and they
showed that death had not yet numbed the inner life
of this moving corpse, but that he was still capable
of emotion.

As long as he was sitting I could bear the sight
of his suffering face, but when he got up I had to
turn away my eyes, for then his clump-feet seemed
to cause him the greatest agony.

He spoke Polish correctly and with a pure accent.
He carefully avoided any direct or indirect allusion
to his past, and shrank equally from information
about his native country. He talked exclusively
about the present, principally about his dog, with
whom he held long conversations. Only once in the
course of the few weeks during which I visited him
did he get animated : that was when I mentioned
Plotsk ; his eyes shone as with a hidden fire while
he asked : ' Do you know that part ? '

I answered that I had lived there for a year, and
he said, half to himself :

' I suppose it is all quite changed, so many years
have passed. You probably were not born at the

252 KOWALSKI THE CARPENTER

time when I came to Siberia. In what part of the
province did you stay ? '

' Not far from Raciaz.'

He opened his mouth, but he felt he had said
too much, or that I was listening with curiosity ;
enough — he only uttered a long-drawn ' Oh . . . '
and was silent again.

This was the only allusion Kowalski ever made
to his past. I felt inclined to draw him out, but
he knew how to parry these attempts in a delicate
way by calling his dog and saying to him while
he caressed him : ' Go, bark at the Almighty ! '
And the obedient creature would continue for a
long time to bark at the sky.

As soon as Kowalski gave this order, it was a sure
sign that he would not open his mouth except for
conversation about his dog, of which he never
tired.

Although this dog was quite ordinary, he was in
several ways distinguished from his Yakut brothers.
For one thing he had no name and was simply
addressed as ' Doggy ', though he was his master's
pet and was attached to the house and enclosure.

' Why didn't you give your dog a name ? ' I
asked casually.

' What 's the good of a name ? If people had not
invented so many names and called each other
simply " Man ", they would perhaps remember
better that we are all men together.'

So the dog remained nameless. He was of a
graceful and delicate build and fast, quite unlike
the heavier, thickset, thick-coated native dogs ;
his hair was short, soft, and silky. His appearance
had condemned him to an isolated and lonely
life. Attempts at participation in the canine

KOWALSKI THE CARPENTER 253

social life had failed deplorably ; he had returned
from these expeditions lame and bleeding all over,
and after some vain repetitions he had given up the
hope of satisfying his social instincts and did not
leave the enclosure any more. He was surprisingly
sedate for his delicate organism and thin, mobile
little frame, but this was not the calm sedateness
of the strong, shaggy Yakut dogs, against whom
he obviously harboured a certain hatred and
bitterness, because these big, powerful creatures
would not recognize the rights of the weak.
Except for his master, he showed no affection for
anyone and accepted no favours — perhaps he had
no belief in them, and only responded to a caress
with a low growl.

* * * * ,* *

Some weeks passed and Kowalski was no better,
on the contrary he seemed to get worse with every
day, and we were all convinced that this illness
was his last. God knows whether he was equally
convinced, but he certainly had a foreboding of
his death, for he hardly ever talked now. For
a few days longer he obstinately struggled against
the weakness which was overpowering him, and
walked about his yurta, even tinkered at some
brushes which he had begun ; at last he gave it up
and took to his bed. One morning, when I had just
sat down to my breakfast, the locksmith Wladyslaw
Piotrowski, Kowalski's nearest friend, came to my
window and asked me to accompany him to our
^ patient.

* It might ease his last hour when he sees that
he is not quite forsaken,' said the kind man.
' Perhaps you would like to take a book with you,'
he added.

254 KOWALSKI THE CARPENTER

I took the New Testament and went with him.

' Is he so very bad ? ' I asked on the way.

* I should think so ; he looks quite black and says
himself that he is sure he will die to-day.'

We soon arrived at Kowalski's yurta. There
was no trace of the usual sick-room smell of
medicines, for Kowalski believed neither in doctors
nor in medicines. But an air of sadness and
desolation pervaded the room. The little dog lay
curled up under the bed, from which, notwith-
standing the open window, an unpleasant smell
reminded one that the sick man was no longer able
to get up.

He looked so unlike a living being that we con-
cluded, on entering and seeing him lying there with
his eyes closed, that he was dead. The locksmith
went up to the bed, put his hand under the bed-
clothes and touched his feet ; they were cold.
But Kowalski called out loudly and emphatically
as I had never heard him before :

' I am alive ! I am glad that you have come, for
I should like to speak to you of death.'

The haste and anxiety with which these words
were uttered bore out our premonition that we
had only just come in time ; we looked at each
other ; Kowalski caught this look and understood it.

' I know,' he said, ' that I shall die soon, it would
be vain to hide from myself what I can see quite
clearly. That is why I want to speak to you.
I was afraid no one would come ... I was afraid no
one would hear what I have got to say and that he
whom you call the Merciful God would take away
my power of speech. ... I thank you for your
thought. May you not be lonely either when your
hour of death calls you from an unhappy life.'

KOWALSKI THE CAEPENTER 255

Kowalski stopped ; only his brow, which was
alternately contracted and smoothed, showed that
the dying man was trying with his last remnant of
strength to collect his thoughts and to retain the
last spark of life.

It was early morning, and the sun threw two
great sheaves of golden rays through the window
on to the wall where the bed stood. From the wide
, expanse of fields and the archipelago of islands in
the river, redolent with luxurious vegetation,
life and the echoes of life and movement emanated
like a melodious song, a great hymn of thanks-
giving in the bright sunshine ; it penetrated to the
bed of the dying man and formed an indescribable
contrast to what was passing inside the yurta.

This brightness, this noise as of a great song of
life, was like an irony, like scorn levelled at the
deathbed of this living corpse. . . .

******

Meanwhile Kowalski had begun to speak.

' Long ago,' he said — •' it must be about forty
years — I was exiled to the steppes of Orenburg.
I was young and strong, I trusted in God and had
confidence in men and in myself. I may have been
right or I may have been wrong, but I thought it
was my duty not to leave my energy to the chance
of fate, but to try and find a wider field of activity
than was open to me in this country. Home-
sickness too urged me on, and after two years I

I was punished by being sent to Tomsk, but this
did not daunt me. I started my life afresh with
renewed energy, lived on bread and water until I
had saved enough for what I needed, and escaped
again. . . .

256 KOWALSKI THE CAKPENTER

'For this second flight I was punished as an
obstinate backslider, and it took several years
before I could make another attempt, but that
time I got farther away than before. It was an
unusually hard winter, I had no money and only
insufficient clothing. My feet were frostbitten,
and I lost my toes. That was a hard blow,
especially as they sent me beyond the Yenessi
this time.

' My situation was difficult ; the country was
dreary and desolate, it was hard to earn a living.
But although I had no toes I managed to learn
a trade or two, and one or the other used to bring
me in a little income, small but sure.

' This time I waited six years, then, without regard
for the state of my feet, I started off again. . . .
• ' You see, I had no more confidence in my strength.
I was ill and broken, it was not the same goal as
before that drew me westwards. ... I wanted to die
there ... to die there. . . .

' I dreamt of dying on my mother's grave as of
a great happiness.

' My life had been such that no one except my
mother had ever been good to me ; I had had no
sweetheart, no wife, no children. . . .

' And now, feeling weak and forsaken, I longed
for the grave of this one being who had loved me.

' In sleepless nights I felt her hand touching my
head, her kiss and the hot tears with which she
took her last leave of me, conscious perhaps that our
separation would be eternal. I do not know even
now whether the longing for my mother or for my
native land was the stronger. But it was a hard
pilgrimage this time. I could not walk fast because
of the wounds on my feet which kept breaking

KOWALSKI THE CARPENTER 257

open. I often had to hide for days in the woods
like a wild animal.

' Vultures and crows l — ill omens of the end-
circled over my head, scenting their prey. Worn
out with hunger I broke down from time to time,
and . . . fool that I was, I always prayed. I im-
plored the Almighty God, the merciful God, the
just God, the God of the poor, the God of the
forsaken :

' " Help me, have mercy on me ! Gracious Father !
send me death, I ask for no other mercy than death !
I will give it to myself, but only there. ..."

* Two years passed before I reached the province
of Perm. I had never before got so far. My heart
began to beat joyously, in my head there was only
one thought : "I shall see my beloved native soil,
and I shall die at my beloved mother's grave."
When I left the Ural behind me I definitely
believed in my salvation, I threw myself down upon
the ground, and for a long, long time I lay there,
sobbing and thanking God for His grace and His
mercy. But He, the Merciful, was only preparing
His last blow, and that same day. . . . Then they
took me as far as Yakutsk ! . . .

' Why did I live on so long in this misery ?

' Why did I wait here for such an end as this ?

' Because I wanted to see what God intended to
do to me.

4 Now see what He has made of a human being
who trusted Him like a child, who has never known
what happiness in this world meant, nor demanded
it, who has never received love from anyone but
his mother and, although maimed and crippled,
has worked hard until the end, never stretched out
1 Siberian fugitives look upon them with superstition.

258 KOWALSKI THE CARPENTER

his hands for alms, never stolen or coveted his
neighbours' possessions, who has ever given away
the half of what he had . . . see what He has made of
me ! . . .

' That is why I hate Him, no longer trust in Him.
... I don't believe in His Saints or His Judgement
or His Justice ; hear me, brothers, I call you to
witness in the hour of my death, so that you should
know it and can testify to it before Him when you
die.'

He raised himself with an effort, stretched out
his hands towards the sun and called with a loud
voice :

' I, a dying worm, truly acknowledge Thee to be
the God of the satiated, the God of the wicked,
the God of the impure, and that Thou hast ruined
me, a guiltless man ! . . . '

******

The sun had risen higher and was now gilding
the bed of pain of this living skeleton— terrible
to behold in his loose skin.

When he sank back exhausted, we were shocked,
for we thought that he would give up the ghost
before we had time to comfort him and ease his
last hour.

' Let us pray for him,' whispered the locksmith.
We knelt down ; with trembling hands I pulled
out the book ; it opened of itself where a book-
marker had been placed at the fifteenth chapter
of the Gospel of St. John.

Raising my voice I began to read :

* I am the true Vine and My Father is the Husbandman.'

The dying man's chest heaved violently, his

eyes were closed. He was now quite covered by the

KOWALSKI THE CARPENTER 259

golden rays ; it seemed as if the sun meant to
reward him at the last moment for his hard life,
so closely did the rays hug him, warming his stiff
limbs, calming him, kissing him as a mother kisses
and caresses her drowsy child and wraps it round
with her own warmth.

Kowalski was still alive.

I continued to read the words of Christ, so full
of power and faith and deep, blessed hope :

' If the world hate you, ye know that it hated Me before
it hated you . . . '

The inspiring words of the Comforter of sufferers
and the caress of the vivifying light eased the
dying man's pain. He opened his eyes and two
great tears welled forth — the last tears which this
man had to spare.

The rays of the sun kissed the tears on his ashen
countenance and made them shine with divine
light ; it seemed as if they endeavoured to present
to their Creator in pure colours the burning fire
which had consumed this man and was con-
centrated in his tears.

I read on :

' Verily, verily, I say unto you, that ye shall weep and
lament, but the world shall rejoice : and ye shall be sorrow-
ful, but your sorrow shall be turned into joy . . . '

The dying man tried to lift his hands, they fell
back powerless, but he murmured in a low, dis-
tinct voice : ' Lord, by Thy pain forgive me ! '

I could not read further. In silence we knelt, and
the dog stood between us, puzzled and looking at
his master. Once more the dying man's eyes
turned towards us, he opened his mouth, and we
heard him say yet more slowly and weakly :
' Doggy, do not bark at the Almighty.'

260 KOWALSKI THE CARPENTER

The faithful creature threw himself whining upon
his master's limp hand, from which the life had
already fled.

Kowalski's eyes closed, a short, dull rattle came
from his throat, his chest sank back, he stretched
himself a little : the life of suffering was ended.
******

When we recovered ourselves we heard the
violent barking of the dog, who, without under-
standing his master's last wish, was faithfully carry-
ing out the sole duty of his life. He barked and
growled incessantly, and came back from time to
time to the bed and his master's limply hanging
hand in expectation of the usual caress.

But his master lay immovable, the cold hand
hung stiffly ; exhausted and hoarse the dog ran
out again into the enclosure.

We left ; but at a long distance from the yurta
we could still hear the barking of the senseless
creature.

FOREBODINGS

TWO SKETCHES BY

STEFAN ZEROMSKI1

I HAD spent an hour at the railway station,
waiting for the train to come in. I had stared
indifferently at several ladies in turn who were
yawning in the corners of the waiting-room. Then
I had tried the effect of making eyes at a fair-
haired young girl with a small white nose, rosy
cheeks, and eyes like forget-me-nots ; she had
stuck out her tongue (red as a field-poppy) at me,
and I was now at a loss to know what to do next
to kill time.

Fortunately for me two young students entered
the waiting-room. They looked dirty from head
to foot, mud-bespattered, untidy, and exhausted
with travelling. One of them, a fair boy with
charming profile, seemed absent-minded or
depressed. He sat down in a corner, took off his
?ap, and hid his face in his hands. His companion
bought his ticket for him, sat down beside him,
and grasped his hand from time to time.

* Why should you despair ? All may yet be
well. Listen, Anton.'

' No, it 's no good, he is dying, I know it. ...
[ know . . . perhaps he is dead already.'

' Don't believe it ! Has your father ever had
this kind of attack before ? '

The accent on the Z softens the sound approximately
io that of the French g in gele.

262 FOKEBODINGS

' He has ; he has suffered from his heart for
three years. He used to drink at times. Think
of it, there are eight of us, some are young children,
and my mother is delicate. In another six months
his pension would have been due. Terribly hard
luck ! '

' You are meeting trouble half-way, Anton.'

The bell sounded, and the waiting-room became

a scene of confusion. People seized their luggage

and trampled on each other's toes ; the porter

who stood at the entrance-door was stormed with

?uestions. There was bustle and noise everywhere,
entered the third-class carriage in which the
fair-haired student was sitting. His friend had
put him into it, settling him in the corner-seat
beside the window, as if he were an invalid, and
urging him to take comfort. It did not come easy
to him, the words seemed to stick in his throat.
The fair-haired boy's face twitched convulsively,
and his eyelids closed over his moist eyes.

' Anton, my dear fellow,' the other said, ' well,
you understand what I mean ; God knows. You
may be sure . . . confound it all ! '

The second bell sounded, and then the third.
The sympathizing friend stepped out of the
carriage, and, as the train started, he waved an
odd kind of farewell greeting, as if he were threaten-
ing him with his fists.

In the carriage were a number of poor people,
Jews, women with enormously wide cloaks, who
had elbowed their way to their seats, and sat
chattering or smoking.

The student stood up and looked out of the
window without seeing. Lines of sparks like
living fire passed by the grimy window-pane, and

FOREBODINGS 263

balls of vapour and smoke, resembling large tufts
of wool, were dashed to pieces and hurried to the
ground by the wind. The smoke curled round the
small shrubs growing close to the ground, moistened
by the rain in the valley. The dusk of the autumn
day spread a dim light over the landscape, and
produced an effect of indescribable melancholy.
Poor boy ! Poor boy !

The loneliness of boundless sorrow was expressed
in his weary look as he gazed out of the window.
I knew that the pivot on which all his emotions
turned was the anxiety of uncertainty, and that
beyond the bounds of conscious thought an un-
known loom was weaving for him a shadowy
thread of hope. He saw, he heard nothing, while
his vacant eyes followed the balls of smoke. As
the train travelled along, I knew that he was
miserable, tired out, that he would have liked to
cry quietly. The thread of hope wound itself
round his heart : Who could tell ? perhaps
his father was recovering, perhaps all would be
well ?

Suddenly (I knew it would come), the blood
rushed from his face, his lips went pale and
tightened ; he was gazing into the far distance
with wide-open eyes. It was as if a threatening
hand, piercing the grief, loneliness and dread that
weighed on him, was pointing at him, as if the
wind were rousing him with the cry : ' Beware ! '
His thread of hope was strained to breaking-point,
and the naked truth, which he had not quite faced
till that minute, struck him through the heart like
a sword.

Had I approached him at that instant, and told
him I was an^omniscient spirit and knew his village

264 FOREBODINGS

well, and that his father was not lying dead, he
would have fallen at my feet and believed, and
I should have done him an infinite kindness.

But I did not speak to him, and I did not take
his hand. All I wished to do was merely to watch
him with the interest and insatiable curiosity
which the human heart ever arouses in me.

* Let my fate go whither it listeth.'

(Oedipus Tyrannus.)

IN the darkest corner of the ward, in the bed
marked number twenty-four, a farm labourer of
about thirty years of age had been lying for several
months. A black wooden tablet, bearing the words
* Caries tuberculosa ', hung at the head of the bed,
and shook at each movement of the patient.
The poor vfellow's leg had had to be amputated
above the knee, the result of a tubercular decay of
the bone. He was a peasant, a potato-grower, and
his forefathers had grown potatoes before him. He
was now on his own, after having been in two
situations ; had been married for three years and
had a baby son with a tuft of flaxen hair. Then
suddenly, from no cause that he could tell, his knee
had pained him, and small ulcers had formed. He
had afforded himself a carriage to the town, and
there he had been handed over to the hospital at
the expense of the parish.

He remembered distinctly how on that autumn
afternoon he had driven in the splendid, cushioned
carriage with his young wife, how they had both
wept with fright and grief, and when they had
finished crying had eaten hard-boiled eggs : but

FOREBODINGS 265

what had happened after that had all become
blurred — indescribably misty. Yet only partially so.

Of the days in the hospital with their routine and
monotony, creating an incomprehensible break in
his life, his memory retained nothing ; but the
unchanging grief, weighing like a slab of stone on
a grave, was ever present in his soul with inexorable
and brutal force during these many months. He
only half recalled the strange wonders that had
been worked on him : bathing, feeding, probing
into the wound, and later on the operation. He
had been carried into a room full of gentlemen
wearing aprons spotted with blood ; he was
conscious also of the mysterious, intrepid courage
which, like a merciful hand, had supported him
from that hour.

After having gazed at the awe-inspiring pheno-
mena which surrounded him in the semicircle of
the hospital theatre, he had slept during the
operation. His simple heart had not worked out
the lesson which sleep, the greatest mistress on
earth, teaches. After the operation everything
had been veiled by mortal lassitude. This had
continued, but in the afternoon and at night they
had mixed something heavy, like a stone ball, into
his -drinking-cup, and waves of warmth had flowed
to the toes of his healthy foot from the cup.
Thoughts chased one another swiftly, like tiny
quicksilver balls through some corner of his brain,
and while he lay bathed in perspiration, and his
eyelids closed of their own accord, not in sleep
but in unconsciousness, he had been pursued by
strange, half-waking visions.

Everything real seemed to disappear, only dimly
lighted, vacant space remained, pervaded by the
K 3

266 FOREBODINGS

smell of chloroform. He seemed to be in the
interior of a huge cone, stretching along the
ground like a tunnel. Far away in the distance,
where it narrowed towards the opening, there was
a sparkling, white spot ; if he could get there, he
might escape. He seemed to be travelling day and
night towards that chink along unending spiral
lines running within the surface of the tunnel ; he
travelled under compulsion and with great effort,
slowly, like a snail, although within him something
leapt up like a rabbit caught in a snare, or as if
wings were fluttering in his soul. He knew what
was beyond that chink. Only a few steps would
lead him to the ridge under the wood ... to his own
four strips of potato -field ! And whenever he
roused himself mechanically from his apathy he
had a vision of the potato-harvest. * The trans-
parent autumn-haze in the fields was bringing
objects that were far off into relief, and making
them appear perfectly distinct. He saw himself
together with his young wife, digging beautiful
potatoes, large as their fists.

On the hillock, amid the stubble, the herdsmen
were assembled in groups, their wallets slung round
them ; they were crouching on their heels, had
collected dry juniper and lighted a fire ; with bits
of sticks they were scraping out the baked potatoes
from the ashes. The rising smoke scented the air
fragrantly with juniper.

At times, when he was better and more himself,
when the fever tormented him less, he sank into
the state of timidity and apprehension known only
to those harassed almost beyond human endurance
and to the dying. Fear oppressed him till his
whole being shrank into something less than the

FOREBODINGS 267

smallest grain ; he was hurled by fearful sounds
and overawing obsessions into a bottomless abyss.

At last the wound on his foot began to heal, and
the fever to abate. His mind returned from that
other world to the familiar one, and to reflecting
on what was taking place before his eyes. But the
nature of these reflections had changed. Formerly
he had felt self-pity arising from terror ; now it
was the wild hatred of the wounded man, his
overpowering desire for revenge ; his rage turned
as fiercely even upon the unfortunate ones lying
beside him as upon those who had maimed him.
But another idea had taken even more powerfully
possession of his mind ; his thoughts darted
forward like a pack of hounds on the trail, in
frantic pursuit of the power which had thus passed
sentence on him.

This condition of lonely self -torment lasted a long
while, and increased his exasperation.

And then, one day, he noticed that his healthy
foot was growing stiff and the ankle swelling.
When the head-surgeon came on his daily rounds,
the patient confided his fear to him. The doctor
examined the emaciated limb, unobserved lanced
the abscess, perceived that the probe reached to
the bone, rubbed his hands together and looked
into the peasant's face with a sad, doubtful
look.

' This is a bad job, my good fellow. It may mean
the other foot ; was that what you were thinking
of ? And you are a bad subject. But we will do
it for you here ; you will be better off than in your
cottage, we will give you plenty to eat.' And he
passed on, accompanied by his assistant. At the
door he turned back, bent over the sick man, and

268 FOREBODINGS

furtively, so that no one should see, passed his
hand kindly over his head.

The peasant's mind became a blank : it was as
if someone had unawares dealt him a blow in the
dark with a club. He closed his eyes and lay still
for a long time . . . until an unknown feeling of
calm came over him.

There is an enchanted, hidden spot in the human
soul, fastened with seven locks, which no one and
nothing but that picklock, bitter adversity, can
open.

Through the lips of the self-blinded Oedipus,
Sophocles makes mention of this secret place.
Within it are hidden marvellous joy, sweet neces-
sity, the highest wisdom.

As the poor fellow lay silently on his bed, the
special conception that arose in his mind was that
of Christ walking on the waves of the raging sea,
quelling the storm.

Henceforward through long nights and wretched
days he was looking at everything from an im-
measurable distance, from a safe place, where all
was calm and wholly well, whence everything
seemed small, slightly ludicrous and foolish, and
yet lovable.

' And may the Lord Jesus . . . may He give His
peace to all people,' he whispered to himself.
' Never mind, this will do as well for me ! '

A POLISH SCENE

BY

WLADYSfcAW ST. REYMONT1

[THE place is a solitary inn in Russian Poland,
near the Prussian frontier, kept by a Jew named
Herszlik, part of whose occupation is to smuggle
emigrants for America by night across the border.
Besides emigrants and Herszlik are present an old
beggar man and his wife or ' doxy ', a couple of
peasants drinking together, and Jan (or, in dimi-
nutive form, Jasiek), a youth who has just escaped
from a prison to which he had been sentenced for
an attack, under great provocation, on a steward,
and now creeps into the inn out of the surrounding
forest.]

It was a night of March, a night of rain, cold, and
tempest.

The forest, cramped, stiff, soaked to its marrow,
and agitated now and then by an icy shiver, threw
out its boughs in a sort of feverish panic as if to
shake the water from them, and roared the wild
note of a creature in torture. At times a damp
snow stilled all to helpless silence, broken by a
passing groan or the cry of some frozen bird or
rattle of some body falling on the boughs. Then
once more the wind flung itself with fury on the
woods, dug into their depths with its teeth, tore
off boughs, and with a roar of triumph whistled

1 The stroke softens the 1 approximately to the sound of w.

270 A POLISH SCENE

along the glades and swept the forest as with
a besom ; or from out of the depths of space huge
mud-coloured clouds, like piles of rotting hay,
strangled the trees in their embrace, or dissolved
in a cold unceasing drizzle that might have pene-
trated a stone. The roads were deserted, flooded
with a mixture of mud and foul snow ; the villages
seemed dead, the fields shrivelled, the rivers ice-
fettered ; man and life were to be seen nowhere ;
night ruled alone.

Only in the single inn of Przylecki shone a small
light ; it stood in the middle of the forest at cross
roads ; a few cottages were visible on the side of
a hill : the rest was the mighty forest.

Jasiek Winciorek pushed forward cautiously
from the wood to the road, and at sight of the
blinking light walked stealthily to the window,
peeped in, then in timid perplexity drew back
a few steps till a fresh blast of wind froze him so
that the poor boy turned back once more, crossed
himself, and entered.

The inn was large, with a floor of clay, and
a black ceiling resting on walls out of the perpen-
dicular ; these had lost their whitewash, and were
pierced by two small windows half-choked up with
straw. Directly opposite the latter, behind a
wooden railing, stood a cask resting on other
barrels, above which smoked the red glare of
a naphtha lamp. Over the room lay a dense dark-
ness, only lightened now and then with flashes
from an expiring fire in a large old-world fire-place,
before which sat a pair of beggars. In a corner
might be seen a number of persons huddled to-
gether whispering mysteriously. By the cask were
two peasants, one clasping a bottle, the other

A POLISH SCENE 271

holding out a glass ; they often drank healths to
one another and nodded sleepily. A fat red damsel
was snoring behind the railing. Over all there
spread a smell compounded of whisky, sodden
clay, and soaked rags.

At times such a stillness fell on the room that
one could hear the sounds of the forest, the tinkle
of the rain on the window-panes, the crackling of
the pine boughs in the fireplace. And then a low
door behind the railing opened with a creak, and
there appeared the old grey head of a Jew,
dressed in his praying gown, and singing in a low
voice, while behind him shone a room lighted with
small candles, from which issued Sabbath smells
and a quiet monotonous dreary sound of singing.

Jasiek drank a few glasses one after the other,
gnawed half-consciously some mouldy rolls as
tough as leather, which he seasoned with a herring,
and looked now at the door, now at the window,
or listened to the murmur of the voices.

* Marry, no, curse it, I won't marry ! ' suddenly
shouted one of the two peasants, knocking his bottle
on the cask and spitting as far as the shoulder of
the beggar man at the fire.

* But you must,' whispered the other, ' or repay
the money.'

* God ! that 's nothing ! Jevka ! ' — this to the
girl — ' half a pint of whisky ! I pay ! }

' Money is a big thing, though a woman is
a bigger.'

4 No, curse it, I won't marry ! I'll sell myself,
borrow, pay back the money, rather than marry
that harridan.'

' Just take a drop to my health, Antek : I have
something to say to you.'

272 A POLISH SCENE

' You won't get round me. I have said no, and
that is no. Why, if I must, I will run away to
Brazil or the end of the world with those folk
yonder ! '

' Silly ! just take a drop to my health, Antek :
I have something to say to you.5

They drank healths to one another several times,
then began kissing, then fell silent, for a child was
crying in a corner, and a movement began among
the quiet timid crowd.

A tall dried-up peasant appeared out of the
darkness and walked out of the inn.

Jasiek moved up to the fire, for the cold was in
his bones, and putting his herring on a stick began
to toast it over the coals. ' Move up a bit,' he
whispered to the beggar man, who had his feet on
his wallet, and though quite blind, was drying at
the fire the soaked strips he wore round his legs,
and talking endlessly in a low voice to the woman
by him ; she was cooking something and arranging
boughs under a tripod on which stood a pot.

Jasiek got warmer, and steam as from a bucket
of boiling water went up from his long coat.

' You are badly soaked,' whispered the beggar,
sniffing.

' I am,' said Jasiek in a whisper, shivering.
The door creaked, but it was only the thin peasant
returning.

' Who is that ? ' whispered Jasiek, tapping the
beggar on the arm.

* Those ? I don't know him ; but those are
silly fools going to Brazil.' He spat.

Jasiek said not a word, but went on drying
himself and moving his eyes about the room,
where the people, apparently grown uneasy, now

A POLISH SCENE 273

talked with increasing loudness, now fell suddenly
silent, while every moment one of them went out
of the inn, and returned immediately.

From the inner room the monotonous chant still
reached them. A hungry dog crept out from
nowhere to .the fire and began to growl at the
beggars, but getting a blow from a stick he howled
with pain, settled himself in the middle of the
room, and with a piteous look gazed at the steam
rising from the pot.

Jasiek was getting warmer ; he had eaten his
herring and rolls, but still felt more sharply than
ever that he wanted something. He minutely
searched his pockets, but not finding even a
farthing there, doubled himself together and gazed
idly at the pot and the beams of the fire.

' You want to eat — eh ? ' asked the beggar
woman presently.

' I have ... a small rumbling in my belly.'

* Who is it ? ' the beggar man softly inquired of
the woman.

* Don't be afraid,' she growled with malice :
' he won't give you a threepenny bit, not so much
as a farthing.'

' A farmer ? '

* Yes, a farmer, like you : one who goes about
the world ' — and she took the pot off the tripod.

' And there are good people in the world — and
wild beasts — and pigs out of sties. . . . Hey ? '
said the beggar man, poking Jasiek with his stick.

' Yes, yes,' answered the boy, not knowing what
he said.

' You have something on your mind, I see,5
whispered the beggar.

' I have.'

274 A POLISH SCENE

* The Lord Jesus always said : " If you are hungry,
eat ; if you are thirsty, drink ; but if you are in
trouble, don't chatter." :

' Eat a little,' the woman begged the boy ; ' it
is beggars' food, but it will do-you good,' and she
poured out a liberal portion on a plate. From the
bag she drew out a piece of brown bread and put
it in the soup unnoticed ; then as he moved up to
eat and she saw his worn grey face, mere skin and
bone, pity so moved her that she took out a piece
of sausage and laid it on the bread.

Jasiek could not resist but ate greedily, from
time to time throwing a bone to the dog, who had
crept up with entreating eyes.

The beggar man listened a long time ; then,
when the woman put the pot into his hands, he
raised his spoon and said solemnly :

4 Eat, man. The Lord Jesus said, give a beggar
a farthing and another shall repay thee ten. God
be with you ! '

They ate in silence, till in an interval the beggar
rubbed his mouth with his cuff and said :

' Three things are needful for food to do you
good — spirit, salt, bread. Give us spirit, woman ! *

All three drank together and then went on
eating.

Jasiek had almost forgotten his danger and
threw no more timid looks around. He just ate,
sated himself with warmth, sated slowly the four-
days' hunger that gnawed him, and felt peaceful
in the quietness.

The two peasants had left the cask, but the
crowd in the corner on benches or with their bags
under their heads on the wet floor were still quietly
dreaming ; and still came, but in ever sleepier

A POLISH SCENE 275

tones, the sound of singing from the inner room.
And the rain was still falling and penetrating the
roof in some places ; it dripped from the ceiling
and formed shining sticky circles of mud on the
clay floor. And still at times the wind shook the
inn or howled in the fire-place, scattered the burn-
ing boughs and drove smoke into the room.

1 There is something for you too, vagabond ! '
whispered the woman, giving the rest of the food
to the dog, who flitted about them with beseeching
eyes.

Then the beggar spoke. ' With food in his belly
a man is not badly off, even in hell,' he said, setting
down the empty pot.

' God repay you for feeding me ! ' said Jasiek,
and squeezed the beggar's hand ; the other did not
at once let him go, but felt his hand carefully.

' For a few years you have not worked with your
hands,' he murmured ; but Jan tore his hand away
in a fright.

* Sit down,' continued the beggar, ' don't be
afraid. The Lord Jesus said : " All are just men
who fear God and help the poor orphan." Fear not,
man. I am no Judas nor Jew, but an honest
Christian and a poor orphan myself.'

He thought for a moment, then in a quiet voice
said :

' Attend to three things : love the Lord Jesus,
never be hungry, and give to a man more un-
fortunate than yourself. All the rest is just nothing,
rotten fancies. A wise man should never vex
himself uselessly. Ho ! we know a dozen things.
Bh, what do you say ? '

He pricked up his ears and waited, but Jasiek
remained stubbornly silent, fearing to betray him-

276 A POLISH SCENE

self ; then the beggar brought out his bark snuff-
box, tapped it with his finger, took snuff, sneezed,
and handed it to the boy. Then, bending his huge
blind face over the fire, he began to talk in low
monotonous tones.

' There is no justice in the world ; all men are
Pharisees and rogues ; one man pushes another in
front of him out of the way ; each tries to be the
first to cheat the other, to eat him up. That wasn't
the will of the Lord Jesus. Ho ! go into a squire's
house, take off your cap, and sing, though your
throat is bursting, about Jesus and Mary and all the
Saints ; then wait — nothing comes. Put in a few
prayers about the Lord's Transfiguration ; then
wait. Nothing again. No, only the small dogs whine
about your wallet and the maids bustle behind the
hedges. Add a litany — perhaps they giv.e you two
farthings or a mouldy bit of bread. Curse you !
I wish you were dirty, half-blind, and had to ask
even beggars for help ! Why, after all that praying
the whisky to wash my throat with costs me more
than they give ! ' He spat with disgust.

' But are others better off, eh ? ' he continued,
after a sniff. ' Jantek Kulik — I dare say you know
him — took a little pig of a squire's. And what
enjoyment did he have of it ? Precious little.
It was a miserable creature, like a small yard dog ;
you could drown the whole body of him in a quart
of whisky. Well, for that he was arrested and put
in prison for half a year — and for what ? for
a miserable pig ! as if a pig weren't one of God's
creatures too, and some were meant to die of
hunger, and some to have more than they can stuff
into their throats. And yet the Lord Jesus said :
" What a poor man takes, that is as if you had

A POLISH SCENE 277

given it for My sake." Amen. Won't you take
a drink ? '

* God repay you, but it has already turned my
head a bit ! '

' Silly ! the Lord Jesus himself drank at feasts.
Drinking is no sin ; it is a sin, sure enough, to
swill like a pig or to sit without talking when good
folk are gossiping, but not to drink the gift of God
to the bottom. You just drink my health,' he
whispered resolutely.

He drank himself from the bottle with a ,long
gurgle in his throat ; then handing it to Jasiek,
said merrily :

' Drink, orphan. Observe only three things —
to work the whole week, to say your Paternoster,
and on Sunday to give to the unfortunate, and then
you shall have redemption for your soul. Man,
if you can't drink a gallon, drink a quart ! '

Thereupon all fell silent. The woman was
sleeping with her head drooping by the extinct
flame, the man had opened wide his cataract-
covered eyes at the glowing coals, and once and
again nodded vigorously. In the corner the
whispers were silent ; only the wind struck the
panes more violently than ever and shook the
door, and from the inner room burst forth the
voices in an ecstasy, it seemed, of pity or despair.

Jasiek, overcome by the warmth of the whisky,
felt sleepy, stretched his legs out towards the fire,
and felt an irresistible desire to lie down. He
fought against it with energetic movements, but
every now and then became utterly stiff and
remembered nothing. A pleasant warm mist com-
pounded out of the beams of the fire, kindly words,
and stillness, wrapped him in darkness and a deep

278 A POLISH SCENE

sense of freedom and security. At times he woke
suddenly, he could not have said why, glanced over
the room, or listened for a moment to the beggar,
who was asleep but still muttered : ' For all souls
in Purgatory — Ave Maria, gratia plena/ and then,
* Man, I tell you that a good beggar should have
a stick with a point, a deep wallet, and a long
Paternoster.' Here he woke up, and feeling
Jasiek's eyes on him, recovered his wits and began
to speak :

' Hear what an old man says. Take a drop to
my health, and listen. Man, I tell you, be prudent,
but don't force it into any one's eyes. Note every-
thing, and yet be blind to everything. If you live
with a fool, be a greater fool ; with a lame man,
have no legs at all ; with a sick man, die for him.
If men give you a farthing, thank them as if it
were a bit of silver ; if they set dogs on you, take
it as your offering to the Lord Jesus ; if they beat
you with a stick, say your Paternoster.

' Man, I tell you, do as I advise and you shall
have your wallet full, your belly like a mountain,
and you shall lead the whole world in a string like
silly cattle. . . . Eh, eh, I am a man not born to-day
but one that knows a dozen things. He that can
observe the way of the world, no trouble shall
come to him. At the squire's house take your
revenge on the peasants ; that is a sure farthing
and perhaps a morsel from the dinner ; at the
priest's abuse the peasants and the squires ; that
is two farthings sure, and absolution too ; and
when you are in the cottages, abuse everything,
and you will eat millet and bacon, and drink
whisky mixed with fat.'

Here he began to drowse, still murmuring in-

A POLISH SCENE 279

coherently, ' Man, I tell you . . . for the soul of
Julina . . . Ave Maria . . .', and rocked on the bench.

' Gratia plena . . . help a poor cripple ! ' This
was the woman babbling in her sleep, as she raised
her head from the fire-place ; but the man woke up
suddenly and cried, ' Be quiet, silly ! ' for the
entrance door was thrown loudly open, and there
pushed in among them a tall yellow-haired Jew.

* On to the road,' he called in a deep voice,
' it 's time ' ; and at once the whole crowd of
sleepers sprang to their feet, began to put their
loads on their backs, to get ready, to push forward
into the middle of the room and again for no reason
to retire. A low tumult of sound — abuse or com-
plaint— burst from all : there were hot passages of
words, cries, curses, gesticulations, or the begin-
nings of muttered prayers, noise, and crying
children — but all kept under restraint, and yet
filling the gloomy blackened room with a sense of
alarm.

Jasiek awoke completely, and with his shoulders
pressed to the now cooling fireplace, looked round
curiously at the people as far as he could make
them out.

' Where are they going ? ' he asked the beggar.

' To Brazil.'

' Is it far ? '

' Ho ! ho ! it 's the end of the world, beyond
the tenth sea.'

' And why ? '

1 First because they are fools, and second be-
cause they are unfortunate.'

1 And do they know the way ? ' Jasiek asked
again, hugely astonished.

But the beggar was no longer answering him ;

280 A POLISH SCENE

pushing on the woman with a stick, he came
forward into the middle of the room, fell on his
knees, and began in a sort of plaintive chant :

' You are going beyond the seas, the mountains,
the forests — to the end of the world. The Lord
Jesus bless you, orphans ! The Virgin of Czensto-
chowa keep you, and all the saints help you in
return for the farthing that you give to this poor
cripple. ... To the Lord's Transfiguration ! Ave
Maria '

c Gratia plena : the Lord be with you,' mur-
mured the woman, kneeling at his side.

* Blessed art thou among women,' answered the
crowd and pressed forward.

All knelt ; a subdued sobbing arose ; heads
were bowed ; trusting and resigned hearts breathed
their emotions in prayer. A warm glow of trust
kindled the dull eyes and pinched faces, straight-
ened the bent shoulders, and gave them such force
that they rose from their prayer heartened and
unconquerable.

* Herszlik, Herszlik ! ' they called to the Jew,
who had disappeared into the inner room. They
were eager now to go into that unknown world, so
terrible and yet so alluring for its very strangeness ;
eager to take on their shoulders their new fate and
to escape from the old.

Herszlik came out armed with a dark lantern,
counted the people, made them range themselves
in pairs, opened the door : they began to move
like some phantom army of misery, a column of
ragged shadows, and disappeared at once in the
darkness and rain. For a moment there shone in
the gloom and amid the tossing trees the solitary
light of their guide, for a moment one could hear

A POLISH SCENE

281

amid wailing a tremulous hymn, ' He who casts
himself on the care of the Lord. . . .' Then the
storm broke out again in what seemed like the
groan of dying masses.

' Poor creatures ! orphans 1 ' whispered Jasiek ;
a wild grief filled his heart.

Then he returned to the inn, now dumb and dark,
for the girl had extinguished the light and gone to
sleep, and the singing had ceased in the inner
room : only the beggar remained awake ; he and
the woman were counting the people's alms.

* A poor parish ! two threepenny bits and five
and twenty farthings — the whole show ! Ha ! May
the Lord Jesus never remember them or help them ! '

He went on babbling, but Jasiek no longer
listened. Crouched in the fire-place he hid himself
as best he could in his still wet cloak and fell into
a stony sleep.

A good while after midnight he was awakened
by a sharp tug ; a light shone straight into his eyes.

* Hey, brother, get up ! Who are you ? Have
you your passport ? '

He came to his senses at once : two policemen
stood over him.

1 Have you your passport ? ' the policeman
asked again, shaking him like a bundle of straw.

But for answer Jasiek jumped to his feet and
struck the man with his fist between the eyes, so
that he dropped his lantern and fell backwards,
while Jasiek darted to the door and ran out. The
other policeman chased him, and being unable to
catch him, fired.

Jasiek tottered a moment, shrieked, and fell in
the mud, then jumped up at once and was lost in
the darkness of the forest.

DEATH

BY

WfcADYSfcAW ST. KEYMONT

* FATHER, eh, father, get up, do you hear ? —
Eh, get a move on ! '

' Oh God, oh Blessed Virgin ! Aoh ! ' groaned
the old man, who was being violently shaken. His
face peeped out from under his sheepskin, a sunken,
battered, and deeply-lined face, of the same colour
as the earth he had tilled for so many years ; with
a shock of hair, grey as the furrows of ploughed
fields in autumn. His eyes were closed ; breathing
heavily he dropped his tongue from his half -open
bluish mouth with cracked lips.

' Get up ! hi ! ' shouted his daughter.

' Grandad ! ' whimpered a little girl who stood
in her chemise and a cotton apron tied across her
chest, and raised herself on tiptoe to look at the
old man's face.

* Grandad ! ' There were tears in her blue eyes
and sorrow in her grimy little face. ' Grandad ! *
she called out once more, and plucked at the pillow.

' Shut up ! ' screamed her mother, took her by
the nape of the neck and thrust her against the
stove.

' Out with you, damned dog ! ' she roared, when
she stumbled over the old half-blind bitch who
was sniffing the bed. ' Out you go ! will you . . .

DEATH 283

you carrion ! ' and she kicked the animal so
violently with her clog that it tumbled over, and,
whining, crept towards the closed door. The little
girl stood sobbing near the stove, and rubbed her
nose and eyes with her small fists.

' Father, get up while I am still in a good
humour ! '

The sick man was silent, his head had fallen on
one side, his breathing became more and more
laboured. He had not much longer to live.

' Get up. WhaVs the idea ? Do you think you
are going to do your dying here ? Not if I know
it ! Go to Julina, you old dog ! You've given the
property to Julina, let her look after you . . . come
now . . . while I'm yet asking you ! '

' Oh blessed Child Jesus ! oh Mary . . .'

A sudden spasm contracted his face, wet with
anxiety and sweat. With a jerk his daughter tore
away the feather-bed, and, taking the old man
round the middle, she pulled him furiously half
out of the bed, so that only his head and shoulders
were resting on it ; he lay motionless like a piece
of wood, and, like a piece of wood, stiff and
dried up.

' Priest . . . His Reverence . . .' he murmured
under his heavy breathing.

' I'll give you your priest ! You shall kick your
bucket in the pigsty, you sinner . . . like a dog ! '
She seized him under the armpits, but dropped
him again directly, and covered him entirely with
the feather-bed, for she had noticed a shadow
flitting past the window. Some one was coming
up to the house.

She scarcely had time to push the old man's feet
back into the bed. Blue in the face, she furiously

284 DEATH

banged the feather-bed and pushed the bedding
about.

The wife of the peasant Dyziak came into the
room.

' Christ be praised.'

' In Eternity . . . ' gro.wled the other, and glanced
suspiciously at her out of the corners of her eyes.

' How do you do ? Are you well ? '

' Thank God ... so so .. .'

' How 's the old man ? Well ? '

She was stamping the snow off her clogs near the
door.

' Eh . . . how should he be well ? He can hardly
fetch his breath any more.'

' Neighbour . . . you don't say so ... neigh-
bour . . . ' She was bending down over the old
man.

' Priest,' he sighed.

' Dear me . . . just fancy . . . dear me, he doesn't
know me ! The poor man wants the priest. He 's
dying, that 's certain, he 's all but dead already . . .
dear me ! Well, and did you send for his Reve-
rence ? '

' Have I got any one to send ? '

' But you don't mean to let a Christian soul die
without the sacrament ? '

' I. can't run ofi and leave him alone, and perhaps
... he may recover.'

' Don't you believe it ... hoho ... just listen to
his breathing. That means that his inside is
withering up. It 's just as it was with my Walek
last year when he was so ill.'

' Well, dear, you'd better go for the priest, make
haste . . . look ! '

' All right, all right. Poor thing ! He looks as

DEATH 285

if he couldn't last much longer. I must make
haste . . . I'm off . . . ' and she tied her apron more
firmly over her head.

' Good-bye, Antkowa.'

1 Go with God.'

Dyziakowa went out, while the other woman
began to put the room in order ; she scraped the
dirt off the floor, swept it up, strewed wood-ashes,
scrubbed her pots and pans and put them in a row.
From time to time she turned a look of hatred on
to the bed, spat, clenched her fists, and held her
head in helpless despair.

' Fifteen acres of land, the pigs, three cows,
furniture, clothes — half of it, I'm sure, would come
to six thousand . . . good God ! '

And as though the thought of so large a sum was
giving her fresh vigour, she scrubbed her saucepans
with a fury that made the walls ring, and banged
them down on the board.

' May you . . . may you ! ' She continued to
count up : ' Fowls, geese, calves, all the farm
implements. And all left to that trull ! May
misery eat you up ... may the worms devour you
in the ditch for the wrong you have done me, and
for leaving me no better off than an orphan ! '

She sprang towards the bed in a towering rage
and shouted :

' Get up ! ' And when the old man did not move,
she threatened him with her fists and screamed
into his face :

' That 's what you've come here for, to do your
dying here, and I am to pay for your funeral and
buy you a hooded cloak . . . that 's what he thinks.
I don't think ! You won't live to see me do it !
If your Julina is so sweet, you'd better make haste

286 DEATH

and go to her. Was it I who was supposed to look
after you in your dotage ? She is the pet, and
if you think . . .'

She did not finish, for she heard the tinkling of
the bell, and the priest entered with the sacrament.

Antkowa bowed down to his feet, wiping tears
of rage from her eyes, and after she had poured the
holy water into a chipped basin and put the
asperges-brush beside it, she went out into the
passage, where a few people who had come with
the priest were waiting already.

' Christ be praised.'

' In Eternity.'

' What is it ? '

' Oh nothing ! Only that he 's come here to
give up ... with us, whom he has wronged. And
now he won't give up. Oh dear me . . . poor me ! '

She began to cry.

* That 's true ! He will have to rot, and you will
have to live,' they all answered in unison and
nodded their heads.

' One's own* father,' she began again. '. . . Have
we, Antek and I, not taken care of him, worked
for him, sweated for him, just as much as they ?
Not a single egg would I sell, not half a pound of
butter, bjat put it all down his throat ; the little
drop of milk I have taken away from the baby and
given it to him, because he was an old man and my
father . . . and now he goes and gives it all to
Tomek. Fifteen acres of land, the cottage, the
cows, the pigs, the calf, and the farm-carts and
all the furniture ... is that nothing ? Oh, pity
me ! There 's no justice in this world, none . . .
Oh, oh ! '

She leant against the wall, sobbing loudly.

DEATH 287

' Don't cry, neighbour, don't cry. God is full of
mercy, but not always towards the poor. He will
reward you some day.'

' Idiot, what 's the good of talking like that ? '
interrupted the speaker's husband. ' What 's wrong
is wrong. The old man will go, and poverty will stay.'

' It 's hard to make an ox move when he won't
lift up his feet,' another man said thoughtfully.

' Eh . . . You can get used to everything in time,
even to hell,' murmured a third, and spat from
between his teeth.

The little group relapsed into silence. The wind
rattled the door and blew snow through the
crevices on to the floor. The peasants stood
thoughtfully, with bared heads, and stamped their
feet to get warm. The women, with their hands
under their cotton aprons, and huddled together,
looked with patient resigned faces towards the
door of the living-room.

At last the bell summoned them into the room ;
they entered one by one, pushing each other aside.
The dying man was lying on his back, his head
deeply 'buried in the pillows ; his yellow chest,
covered with white hair, showed under the open
shirt. The priest bent over him and laid the wafer
upon his outstretched tongue. AlUbielt down and,
with their eyes raised to the ceiling, violently smote
their chests, while they sighed and sniffled audibly.
The women bent down to the ground and babbled :
' Lamb of God that takest away the sins of the
world.'

The dog, worried by the frequent tinkling of the
bell, growled ill-temperedly in the corner.

The priest had finished the last unction, and
beckoned to the dying man's daughter.

288 DEATH

' Where 's yours, Antkowa ? '

' Where should he be, your Reverence, if not at
his daily job ? '

For a moment the priest stood, hesitating,
looked at the assembly, pulled his expensive fur
tighter round his shoulders ; but he could not
think of anything suitable to say ; so he only
nodded to them and went out, giving them his
white, aristocratic hand to kiss, while they bent
towards his knees.

When he had gone they immediately dispersed.
The short December day was drawing to its close.
The wind had gone down, but the snow was now
falling in large, thick flakes. The evening twilight
crept into the room. Antkowa was sitting in front
of the fire ; she broke off twig after twig of the
dry firewood, and carelessly threw them upon
the fire.

She seemed to be purposing something, for she
glanced again and again at the window, and then
at the bed. The sick man had been lying quite still
for a considerable time. She got very impatient,
jumped up from her stool and stood still, eagerly
listening and looking about ; then she sat down
again.

Night was failing fast. It was almost quite dark
in the room. The little girl was dozing, curled up
near the stove. The fire was flickering feebly with
a reddish light which lighted up the woman's knees
and a bit of the floor.

The dog started whining and scratched at the
door. The chickens on the ladder cackled low
and long.

Now a deep silence reigned in the room. A damp
chill rose from the wet floor.

DEATH 289

Antkowa suddenly got up to peer through the
window at the village street ; it was empty. The
snow was falling thickly, blotting out everything
at a few steps' distance. Undecided, she paused
in front of the bed, but only for a moment ; then
she suddenly pulled away the feather-bed roughly
and determinedly, and threw it on to the other
bedstead. She took the dying man under the arm-
pits and lifted him high up.

' Magda ! Open the door.'

Magda jumped up, frightened, and opened the
door.

' Come here . . . take hold of his feet.'

Magda clutched at her grandfather's feet with
her small hands and looked up in expectation.

' Well, get on ... help me to carry him ! Don't
stare about . . . carry him, that 's what you've got
to do ! ' she commanded again, severely.

The old man was heavy, perfectly helpless, and
apparently unconscious ; he did not seem to realize
what was being done to him.. She held him tight
and carried, or rather dragged him along, for the
little girl had stumbled over the threshold and
dropped his feet, which were drawing two deep
furrows in the snow.

The penetrating cold had restored the dying
man to consciousness, for in the yard he began to
moan and utter broken words :

' Julisha . . . oh God . . . Ju . . .'

' That 's right, you scream . . . scream as much
as you like, nobody will hear you, even if you
shout your mouth off ! '

She dragged him across the yard, opened the door
of the pigsty with her foot, pulled him in, and
dropped him close to the wall.

230

290 DEATH

The sow came forward, grunting, followed by
her piglets.

' Malusha ! malu, malu, malu ! '

The pigs came out of the sty and she banged the
door, but returned almost immediately, tore the
shirt open on the old man's chest, tore off his
chaplet, and took it with her.

' Now die, you leper ! '

She kicked his naked leg, which was lying across
the opening, with her clog, and went out.

The pigs were running about in the yard ; she
looked back at them from the passage.

' Malusha ! malu, malu, malu ! *

The pigs came running up to her, squeaking ;
she brought out a bowlfull of potatoes and emptied
it. The mother-pig began to eat greedily, and the
piglets poked their pink noses into her and pulled
at her until nothing but their loud smacking could
be heard.

Antkowa lighted a small lamp above the fireplace
and tore open the chaplet, with her back turned
towards the window. A sudden gleam came into
her eyes, when a number of banknotes and two
silver roubles fell out.

' It wasn't just talk then, his saying that he'd
put by the money for the funeral.' She wrapped
the money up in a rag and put it into the chest.

' You Judas ! May eternal blindness strike
you ! '

She put the pots and pans straight and tried to
cheer the fire which was going out.

' Drat it ! That plague of a boy has left rne
without a drop of water.'

She stepped outside and called ' Ignatz ! Hi !
Ignatz ! '

DEATH 291

A good half-hour passed, then the snow creaked
under stealthy footsteps and a shadow stole past
the window. Antkowa seized a piece of wood and
stood by the door which was flung wide open ;
a small boy of about nine entered the room.

' You stinking idler ! Running about the village,
are you ? And not a drop of water in the house ! '

Clutching him with one hand she beat the scream-
ing child with the other.

' Mummy ! I won't do it again. . . . Mummy,
leave off. . . . Mumm . . .'

She beat him long and hard, giving vent to all
her pent-up rage.

' Mother ! Ow ! All ye Saints ! She 's killing
me ! '

' You dog ! You're loafing about, and not a drop
of water do you fetch me, and there 's no wood . . .
am I to feed you for nothing, and you worrying
me into the bargain ? ' She hit harder.

At last he tore himself away, jumped out by the
window, and shouted back at her with a tear-
choked voice :

' May your paws rot off to the elbows, you dog
of a mother ! May you be stricken down, you
sow ! . . . You may wait till you're manure before
I fetch you any water ! '

And he ran back to the village.

The room suddenly seemed strangely empty.
The lamp above the fireplace trembled feebly.
The little girl was sobbing to herself.

' What are you snivelling about ? '

' Mummy ... oh ... oh ... grandad . . .'

She leant, weeping, against her mother's knee.

' Leave off, idiot ! '

She took the child on her lap, and, pressing hei

292 DEATH

close, she began to clean her head. The little thing
babbled incoherently, she looked feverish ; she
rubbed her eyes with her small fists and presently
went to sleep, still sobbing convulsively from time
to time.

Soon afterwards the husband returned home.
He was a huge fellow in a sheepskin, and wore
a muffler round his cap. His face was blue with
cold ; his moustache, covered with hoar-frost,
looked like a brush. He knocked the snow off his
boots, took muffler and cap off together, dusted
the snow off his fur, clapped his stiff hands against
his arms, pushed the bench towards the fire, and
sat down heavily.

Antkowa took a saucepan full of cabbage off the
fire and put it in front of her husband, cut a piece
of bread and gave it him, together with the spoon.
The peasant ate in silence, but when he had
finished he undid his fur, stretched his legs, and
said : ' Is there any more ? '

She gave him the remains of their midday
porridge ; he spooned it up after he had cut him-
self another piece of bread ; then he took out his
pouch, rolled a cigarette and lighted it, threw some
sticks on the fire and drew closer to it. A good
while later he looked round the room. ' Where 's
the old man ? '

' Where should he be ? In the pigsty.'

He looked questioningly at her.

' I should think so ! What should he loll in the
bed for, and dirty the bedclothes ? If he 's got to
give up, he will give up all the quicker in there. . . .
Has he given me a single thing ? What should he
come to me for ? Am I to pay for his funeral and
give him his food ? If he doesn't give up now — and

DEATH 293

I tell you, he is a tough one — then he'll eat us out
of house and home. If Julina is to have everything
let her look after him — that 's nothing to do with
me.'

' Isn't my father . . . and cheated us ... he has.
I don't care. . . . The old speculator ! '

Antek swallowed the smoke of his cigarette and
spat into the middle of the room.

' If he hadn't cheated us we should now have . . .
wait a minute . . . we've got five . . . and seven and
a half . . . makes . . . five and . . . seven . . .'

' Twelve and a half. I had counted that up long
ago ; we could have kept a horse and three cows . . .
bah ! . . . the carrion ! '

Again he spat furiously.

The woman got up, laid the child down on the
bed, took the little rag bundle from the chest and
put it into her husband's hand.

' What 's that ? '

' Look at it.'

He opened the linen rag. An expression of
greed came into his face, he bent forward towards
the fire with his whole frame, so as to hide the
money, and counted it over twice.

1 How much is it ? '

She did not know the money values.

' Fifty-four roubles.'

* Lord ! So much ? '

Her eyes shone ; she stretched out her hand and
fondled the money.

' How did you come by it ? '

' Ah bah . . . how ? Don't you remember the
old man telling us last year that he had put by
enough to pay for his funeral ? '

' That 's right, he did say that.'

294 DEATH

' He had stitched it into his chaplet and I took
it from him ; holy things shouldn't knock about
in a pigsty, that would be sinful ; then I felt the
silver through the linen, so I tore that off and took
the money. That is ours ; hasn't he wronged us
enough ? '

' That 's God's truth. It 's ours ; that little bit
at least is coming back to us. Put it by with the
other money, we can just do with it. Only yester-
day Smoletz told me he wanted to borrow a
thousand roubles from me ; he will give his five
acres of ploughed fields near the forest as security.'

' Have you got enough ? '

c I think I have.'

' And will you begin to sow the fields yourself in
the spring ? '

' Rather ... if I shouldn't have quite enough
now, I will sell the sow ; even if I should have to
sell the little ones as well I must lend him the
money. For he won't be able to redeem it,' he
added, ' I know what I know. We shall go to the
lawyer and make a proper contract that the
ground will be mine unless he repays the money
within five years.'

' Can you do that ? '

' Of course I can. How did Dumin get hold of
Dyziak's fields ? . . . Put it away ; you may keep
the silver, buy what you like with it. Where 's
Ignatz ? '

' He's run off somewhere. Ha ! no water, it 's
all gone. . . .'

The peasant got up without a word, looked after
the cattle, went in and out, fetched water and
wood.

The supper was boiling in the saucepan. Ignatz

DEATH 295

cautiously crept into the room ; no one spoke to
him. They were all silent and strangely ill at ease.
The old man was not mentioned ; it was as if he
had never been.

Antek thought of his five acres ; he looked upon
them as a certainty. Momentarily the old man
came into his mind, and then again the sow he had
meant to kill when she had finished with the
sucking-pigs. Again and again he spat when his
eyes fell on the empty bedstead, as if he wanted to
get rid of an unpleasant thought. He was worried,
did not finish his supper, and went to bed imme-
diately after. He turned over from side to side ;
the potatoes and cabbage, groats and bread gave
him indigestion, but he got over it and went to
sleep.

When all was silent, Antkowa gently opened the
door into the next room where the bundles of flax
lay. From underneath these she fetched a packet
of banknotes wrapped up in a linen rag, and added
the money. She smoothed the notes many times
over, opened them out, folded them up again, until
she had gazed her fill ; then she put out the light
and went to bed beside her husband.

Meanwhile the old man had died. The pigsty,
a miserable lean-to run up of planks and thatched
with branches, gave no protection against wind
and weather. No one heard the helpless old man
entreating for mercy in a voice trembling with
despair. No one saw him creep to the closed door
and raise himself with a superhuman effort to try
and open it. He felt death gaining upon him ;
from his heels it crept upwards to his chest, holding
it as in a vice, and shaking him in terrible spasms ;
his jaws closed upon each other, tighter and

296 DEATH

tighter, until he was no longer able to open them
and scream. His veins were hardening till they
felt like wires. He reared up feebly, till at last he
broke down on the threshold, with foam on his lips,
and a look of horror at being left to die of cold, in
his broken eyes ; his face was distorted by an
expression of anguish which was like a frozen cry.
There he lay.

The next morning before dawn Antek and his
wife got up. His first thought was to see what
had happened to the old man.

He went to look, but could not get the door of
the pigsty to open, the corpse was barring it from
the inside like a beam. At last, after a great effort,
he was able to open it far enough to slip in, but he
came out again at once, terror-stricken. He could
hardly get fast enough across the yard and into
the house ; he was almost senseless with fear. He
could not understand what was happening to him ;
his whole frame shook as in a fever, and he stood
by the door panting and unable to utter a word.

Antkowa was at that moment teaching little
Magda her prayer. She turned her head towards
her husband with questioning eyes.

' Thy will be done . . .' she babbled thoughtlessly.

' Thy will . . .'

' ... be done . . .'

' ... be done . . .' the kneeling child repeated
like an echo.

' Well, is he dead ? ' she jerked out, ' ... on
earth . . .'

"... on earth . . .'

' To be sure, he 's lying across the door,' he
answered under his breath.

' ... as it is in Heaven . . .'

DEATH

297

* ... is in Heaven . . .'

1 But we can't leave him there ; people might say

we took him there to get rid of him — we can't have

that . . .'

' What do you want me to do with him ? '
' How do I know ? You must do something.'
' Perhaps we can get him across here ? ' suggested

Antek.

' Look at that now ... let him rot ! Bring him

inhere? Not if . . .'

* Idiot, he will have to be buried.'

' Are we to pay for his funeral ? . . . but deliver
us from evil . . . what are you blinking your silly
eyes for ? ... go on praying.'

' . . . deliver ... us ... from . . . evil . . . '
' I shouldn't think of paying for that, that 's
Tomek's business by law and right.'
* ... Amen . . .'
• ' Amen.'

She made the sign of the cross over the child,
wiped its nose with her ringers and went up to her
husband.

He whispered : ' We must get him across.'
' Into the house . . . here ? '
' Where else ? '

' Into the cowshed ; we can lead the calf out
and lay him down on the bench, let him lie in state
there, if he likes . . . such a one as he has been ! '
Monika ! '
Eh?'

We ought to get him out there.'
Well, fetch him out then.'
All right . . . but . . .'
You're afraid, what ? '
Idiot . . . damned . . .'
L 3

298 DEATH

What else ? '

It 's dark . . .'

If you wait till it 's day, people will see you.'

Let 's go together.'

You go if you are so keen.'

Are you coming, you carrion, or are you not ? '
he shouted at her ; ' he 's your father, not mine.'
And he flung out of the room in a rage.
The woman followed him without a word.
When they entered the pigsty, a breath of horror
struck them, like the exhalation from a corpse.
The old man was lying there, cold as ice ; one half
of his body had frozen on to the floor ; they had to
tear him off forcibly before they could drag him
across the threshold and into the yard.

Antkowa began to tremble violently at the sight
of him ; he looked terrifying in the light of the
grey dawn, on the white coverlet of snow, with
his anguished face, wide-open eyes, and drooping
tongue on which the teeth had closed firmly.
There were blue patches on his skin, and he was
covered with filth from head to foot.

' Take hold,' whispered the man, bending over
him. ' How horribly cold he is ! '

The icy wind which rises just before the sun,
blew into their faces, and shook the snow off the
swinging twigs with a dry crackle.

Here and there a star was still visible against the
leaden background of the sky. From the village
came the creaking noise of the hauling of water,
and the cocks crew as if the weather were going
to change.

Antkowa shut her eyes and covered her hands
with her apron, before she took hold of the old
man's feet ; they could hardly lift him, he was so

DEATH 299

heavy. They had barely put him down on a bench
when she fled back into the house, throwing out
a linen-rag to her husband to cover the corpse.

The children were busy scraping potatoes ; she
waited impatiently at the door.

' Have done . . . come in ! ... Lord, how long
you are ! '

' We must get some one to come and wash him,'
she said, laying the breakfast, when he had come in.

' I will fetch the deaf-mute.'

' Don't go to work to-day.'

' Go ... no, not I . . .'

They did not speak again, and ate their break-
fast without appetite, although as a rule they
finished their four quarts of soup between them.

When they went out into the yard they walked
quickly, and did not turn their heads towards the
other side. They were worried, but did not know
why ; they felt no remorse ; it was perhaps more
a vague fear of the corpse, or fear of death, that
shook them and made them silent.

When it was broad day, Antek fetched the
village deaf-mute, who washed and dressed the
old man, laid him out, and put a consecrated candle
at his head.

Antek then went to give notice to the priest and
to the Soltys of his father-in-law's death and his
own inability to pay for the funeral.

* Let Tomek bury him ; he has got all the money.'

The news of the old man's death spread rapidly
throughout the village. People soon began to
assemble in little groups to look at the corpse.
They murmured a prayer, shook their heads, and
went off to talk it over.

It was not till towards evening that Tomek, the

300 DEATH

other son-in-law, under pressure of public opinion,
declared himself willing to pay for the funeral.

On the third day, shortly before this was to take
place, Tomek's wife made her appearance at
Antek's cottage.

In the passage she almost came nose to nose
with her sister, who was just taking a pail of dish-
water out to the cowshed.

* Blessed be Jesus Christ,' she murmured, and
kept her hand on the door-handle.

' Now : look at that . . . soul of a Judas ! '
Antkowa put the pail down hard. ' She 's come
to spy about here. Got rid of the old one somehow,
didn't you ? Hasn't he given everything to you . . .
and you dare show yourself here, you trull ! Have
you come for the rest of the rags he left here,
what ? '

' I bought him a new sukmana at Whitsuntide,
he can keep that on, of course, but I must have the
sheepskin back, because it has been bought with
money I have earned in the sweat of my brow,'
Tomekowa replied calmly.

' Have it back, you mangy dog, have it back ? '
screamed Antkowa. 'I'll give it you, you'll see
what you will have . . .' and she looked round for
an object that would serve her purpose. ' Take it
away ? You dare ! You have crawled to him
and lickspittled till he became the idiot he was
and made everything over to you and wronged me,
and then . . .'

' Everybody knows that we bought the land
from him, there are witnesses . . .'

' Bought it ? Look at her ! You mean to say
you're not afraid to lie like that under God's living
eyes ? Bought it ! Cheats, that 's what you are,

DEATH 301

thieves, dogs ! You stole the money from him
first, and then. . . . Didn't you make him eat out
of the pig-pail? Adam is a witness that he had to
pick the potatoes out of the pig-pail, ha ! You've
let him sleep in the cowshed, because, you said, he
stank so that you couldn't eat. Fifteen acres of
land and a dower-life like that . . . for so much
property ! And you've beaten him too, you swine,
you monkey ! '

e Hold your snout, or I'll shut it for you and
make you remember, you sow, you trull ! '

' Come on then, come on, you destitute creature ! '

' I , . . destitute ? '

* Yes, you ! You would have rotted in a ditch,
the vermin would have eaten you up, if Tomek
hadn't married you.'

' I, destitute ? Oh you carrion ! '

They sprang at each other, clutching at each
other's hair ; they fought in the narrow passage,
screaming themselves hoarse all the time.

' You street- walker, you loafer . . . there ! that 's
one for you ! There 's one for my fifteen acres,
and for all the wrong you have done me, you
dirty dog ! '

' For the love of God, you women, leave off, leave
eff ! It 's a sin and a shame ! ' cried the neighbours.

' Let me go, you leper, will you let go ? '

' I'll beat you to death, I will tear you to pieces,
you filth ! '

They fell down, hitting each other indiscrimi-
nately, knocked over the pail, and rolled about in
the pigwash. At last, speechless with rage and
only breathing hard, they still banged away at
each other. The men were hardly able to separate
them. Purple in the face, scratched all over, and

302 DEATH

covered with filth, they looked like witches. Their
fury was boundless ; they sprang at each other
again, and had to be separated a second time.

At last Antkowa began to sob hysterically with
rage and exhaustion, tore her own hair and wailed :
' Oh Jesus ! Oh little child Jesus ! Oh Mary !
Look at this pestiferous woman . . . curse those
heathen ... oh ! oh ! . . . ' she was only able to
roar, leaning against the wall.

Tomekowa, meanwhile, was cursing and shouting
outside the house, and banging her heels against
the door.

The spectators stood in little groups, taking
counsel with each other, and stamping their feet in
the snow. The women looked like red spots dabbed
on to the wall ; they pressed their knees together,
for the wind was penetratingly cold. They mur-
mured remarks to each other from time to time,
while they watched the road leading to the church,
the spires of which stood out clearly behind the
branches of the bare trees. Every minute some
one or other wanted to have another look at the
corpse ; it was a perpetual coming and going.
The small yellow flames of the candles could be
seen through the half-open door, flaring in the
draught, and momentarily revealing a glimpse of
the dead man's sharp profile as he lay in the coffin.
The smell of burning juniper floated through the
air, together with the murmurings of prayers and
the grunts of the deaf-mute.

At last the priest arrived with the organist. The
white pine coffin was carried out and put into the
cart. The women began to sing the usual lamenta-
tions, while the procession started down. the long
village street towards the cemetery.

DEATH

303

The priest intoned the first words of the Service
for the Dead, walking at the head of the procession
with his black biretta on his head ; he had thrown
a thick fur cloak over his surplice ; the wind made
the ends of his stole flutter ; the words of the Latin
hymn fell from his lips at intervals, dully, as though
they had been frozen ; he looked bored and
impatient, and let his eyes wander into the dis-
tance. The wind tugged at the black banner, and
the pictures of heaven and hell on it wobbled and
fluttered to and fro, as though anxious to display
themselves to the rows of cottages on either side,
where women with shawls over their heads and
bare-headed men were standing huddled together.

They bowed reverently, made the sign of the
cross, and beat their breasts.

The dogs were barking furiously from behind
the hedges, some jumped on to the stone walls
and broke into long-drawn howls.

Eager little children peeped out from behind the
closed windows, beside toothless used-up old
people's faces, furrowed as fields in autumn.

A small crowd of boys in linen trousers and blue
jackets with brass buttons, their bare feet stuck
into wooden sandals, ran behind the priest, staring
at the pictures of heaven and hell, and intoning
the intervals of the chant with thin, shivering
voices : a ! o ! . . . They kept it up as long as the
organist did not change the chant.

Ignatz proudly walked in front, holding the
banner with one hand and singing the loudest of
all. He was flushed with exertion and cold, but
he never relaxed, as though eager to show that he
alone had a right to sing, because it was his grand-
father who was being carried to the grave.

304: DEATH

They left the village behind. The wind threw
itself upon Antek, whose huge form towered above
all the others, and ruffled his hair ; but he did not
notice the wind, he was entirely taken up with the
horses and with steadying the coffin, which was
tilting dangerously at every hole in the road.

The two sisters were walking close behind the
coffin, murmuring prayers and eyeing each other
with furious glances.

' Tsutsu ! Go home ! ... Go home at once, you
carrion ! ' One of the mourners pretended to pick
up a stone. The dog, who had been following the
cart, whined, put her tail between her legs, and
fled behind a heap of stones by the roadside ; when
the procession had moved on a good bit, she ran
after it in a semi-circle, and anxiously kept close
to the horses, lest she should be prevented again
from following.

The Latin chant had come to an end. The
women, with shrill voices, began to sing the old
hymn : ' He who dwelleth under the protection
of the Lord.'

It sounded thin. The blizzard, which was getting
up, did not allow the singing to come to much.
Twilight was falling.

The wind drove clouds of snow across from the
endless, steppe-like plains, dotted here and there
with skeleton trees, and lashed the little crowd of
human beings as with a whip.

' . . . and loves and keeps with faithful heart His
word . . .,' they insisted through the whistling of
the tempest and the frequent shouts of Antek,
who was getting breathless with cold : * Woa !
woa, my lads ! '

Snowdrifts were beginning to form across the

DEATH 305

road like huge wedges, starting from behind trees
and heaps of stones.

Again and again the singing was interrupted
when the people looked round anxiously into the
white void : it seemed to be moving when the
wind struck it with dull thuds ; now it towered in
huge walls, now it dissolved like breakers, turned
over, and furiously darted sprays of a thousand
sharp needles into the faces of the mourners.
Many of them returned half-way, fearing an
increase of the blizzard, the others hurried on to
the cemetery in the greatest haste, almost at a run.
They got through the ceremony as fast as they
could ; the grave was ready, they quickly sang
a little more, the priest sprinkled holy water on
the coffin ; frozen clods of earth and snow rolled
down, and the people fled home.

Tomek invited everybody to his house, because
* the reverend Father had said to him, that other-
wise the ceremony would doubtless end in an
ungodly way at the public -house.'

Antek's answer to the invitation was a curse.
The four of them, including Ignatz and the peasant
Smoletz, turned into the inn.

They drank four quarts of spirits mixed with fat,
ate three pounds of sausages, and talked about the
money transaction.

The heat of the room and the spirits soon made
Antek very drunk. He stumbled so on the way
home that his wife took him firmly under the arm.

Smoletz remained at the inn to drink an extra
glass in prospect of the loan, but Ignatz ran home
ahead as fast as he could, for he was horribly cold.

' Look here, mother . . .,' said Antek, ' the five
acres are mine ! aha ! mine, do you hear ? In the

306 DEATH

autumn I shall sow wheat and barley, and in the
spring we will plant potatoes . . . mine . . . they are
mine ! . . . God is my comfort, sayest thou . . .,'
he suddenly began to sing.

The storm was raging and howling.

' Shut up ! You'll fall down, and that will be
the end of it.'

' . . . His angel keepeth watch . . .,' he stopped
abruptly. The darkness was impenetrable, nothing
could be seen at a distance of two feet. The blizzard
had reached the highest degree of fury ; whistling
and howling on a gigantic scale filled the air, and
mountains of snow hurled themselves upon them.

From Tomek's cottage came the sound of funeral
chants and loud talking when they passed by.

' These heathen ! These thieves ! You wait,
I'll show you my five acres ! Then I shall have
ten. You won't lord it over me ! Dogs' -breed . . .
aha ! I'll work, I'll slave, but I shall get it, eh,
mother ? we will get it, what ? ' he hammered
his chest with his fist, and rolled his drunken eyes.

He went on like this for a while, but as soon as
they reached their home, the woman dragged him
into bed, where he fell down like a dead man. But
he did not go to sleep yet, for after a time he
shouted : ' Ignatz ! '

The boy approached, but with caution, for fear
of contact with the paternal foot.

' Ignatz, you dead dog ! Ignatz, you shall be

first-class peasant, not a beggarly professional
man,' he bawled, and brought his fist down on the
bedstead.

' The five acres are mine, mine ! Foxy Germans,1
you . . . da . . .' He went to sleep.

1 The term ' German ' is used for ' foreigner ' generally,
whom the Polish peasant despises.

THE SENTENCE

BY

J. KADEN-BANDROWSKI

' YAKOB . . . Yakob . . . Yakob ! '

The old man was repeating his name to himself,
or rather he was inwardly listening to the sound
of it which he had been accustomed to hear for so
many years. He had heard it in the stable, in the
fields, and on the grazing-ground, on the steps of
the manor-house and at the Jew's, but never
like this. It seemed to issue from unknown depths,
summoning sounds never heard before, sights
never yet seen, producing a confusion which he had
never experienced. He saw it, felt it everywhere ;
it was itself the cause of a hopeless despair.

This despair crept silently into Yakob's fatal-
istic and submissive soul. He felt it under his hand,
as though he were holding another hand. He was
as conscious of it as of his hairy chest, his cold and
starved body. This despair, moreover, was
blended with a kind of patient expectancy which
was expressed by the whispering of his pale, trembl-
ing lips, the tepid sweat under his armpits, the
saliva running into his throat and making his
tongue feel rigid like a piece of wood.

This is what happened : he tried to remember
how it had all happened.

They had come swarming in from everywhere ;
they had taken the men away ; it was firearms

308 THE SENTENCE

everywhere . . . everywhere firearms, noise and
hubbub. The whole world was pushing, running,
sweating or freezing. They arrived from this side
or from that ; they asked questions, they hunted
people down, they followed up a trail, they fought.
Of course, one must not betray one's brothers, but
then . . . who are one's brothers ?

They placed watches in the mountains, in the
forests, on the fields ; they even drove people into
the mountain-passes and told them to hold out
at any cost.

Yakob had been sitting in the chimney-corner in
the straw and dust, covered with his frozen rags.
The wind swept over the mountains and penetratepl
into the cottage, bringing with it a white covering
of hoar-frost ; it was sighing eerily in the fields ;
the fields themselves seemed to flee from it, and
to be alive, running away into the distance. The
earth in white convulsions besieged the sky, and
the sky got entangled in the mountain-forests.

Yakob was looking at the snow which was
falling thickly, and tried to penetrate the veil with
his eyes. Stronger and faster raged the blizzard.
Yakob's stare became vacant under the rumbling
of the storm and the driving of the snow ; one
could not have told whether he was looking with
eyes or with lumps of ice.

Shadows were flitting across the snowdrifts.
They were the outlines of objects lit up by the
fire ; they trembled on the window-frames ; the
fire flickered, and the shadows treacherously
caressed the images of saints on the walls. The
beam played on the window, threw a red light on
the short posts of the railing, and disappeared in
pursuit of the wind in the fields.

THE SENTENCE 309

1 Yakob . . . Yakob . . . Yakob ! '

And he had really had nothing to do with it !
It had all gone against him continuously, pertina-
ciously, and to no purpose. It had attached itself
to him, clung to the dry flour that flew about in
atoms in the tin where the bit of cheese also was
kept. It had bewitched the creaking of the
windows on their hinges ; it had stared from the
empty seats along the walls.

But he kept on beating his breast. His fore-
head was wrinkled in dried-up folds, his brows
bristled fantastically into shaggy, dirty tufts.
His heavy, blunt nose, powdered with hairs at
the tip, stood out obstinately between two deep
folds on either side. These folds overhung the
corners of his mouth, and were joined below the
chin by a network of pallid veins. A noise, light as
a beetle's wing, came in puffs from the half-open
lips ; they were swollen and purple like an over-
grown bean.

Yakob had been sitting in Turkish fashion, his
hands crossed over his chest, breathing forth his
misery so quietly that it covered him, together
with the hoar-frost, stopped his ears and made the
tufts of hair on his cjiest glitter. He was hugging
his sorrow to himself, abandoning the last remnant
of hope, and longing for deliverance. Behind the
wrinkles of his forehead there swarmed a multitude
not so much of pictures as of ghosts of the past, yet
vividly present.

At last he got up and sat down on the bench in
the chimney-corner, drew a pipe from his trouser-
pocket and put it between his teeth, forgetting to
light it. He laid his heavy hands round the stem.
Beyond the blizzard and the shadow-play of the

310 THE SENTENCE

flame, thjere appeared to him the scene of his wife
and daughters' flight. He had given up everything
he possessed, had taken off his sheepskin, had him-
self loosened the cow from the post. For a short
moment he had caught sight of his wife and
daughters again in the distance, tramping through
the snow as they passed the cross-roads, then they
had been swallowed up in a mass of people, horses,
guns, carts, shouts and curses. Since then he had
constantly fancied that he was being called, yet he
knew that there was no one to call him. His
thoughts were entirely absorbed in what he had
seen then. With his wife all his possessions had
gone. Now there was nothing but silence, surround-
ing him with a sharp breath of pain and death.

By day and by night Yakob had listened to the
shots that struck his cottage and his pear-trees.
He chewed a bit of cheese from time to time, and
gulped down with it the bitter fear that his cottage
might be set on fire.

For here and there, like large red poppies on the
snow, the glare of burning homesteads leapt up
into the sky.

' Here I am ... watching,' he said to himself,
when he looked at these blood-red graves. He
smiled at the sticks of firewood on his hearth,
which was the dearest thing on earth to him. The
walls of his cottage were one with his inmost
being, and every moment when he saw them
standing, seemed to him like precious savings which
he was putting away. So he watched for several
days ; the vermin were overrunning the place, and
he was becoming desperate. Since mid-day the
silence had deepened ; the day declined, and there
was nothing in the world but solitude and snow.

THE SENTENCE

311

Yakob went over to the window. The snow was
lying deep on the fields, like a shimmering coat
of varnish ; the world was bathed in the light
of a pale, wan moon. The forest-trees stood out
here and there in blue points, like teeth. Large
and brilliant the stars looked down, and above the
milky way, veiled in vapours, hung the sickle of
the moon.

While in the immensity of the night cold and
glittering worlds were bowing down before the
eternal, Yakob looked, and noticed something
approaching from the mountains. Along the
heights and slopes there was a long chain of lights ;
it was opening out from the centre into two lines
on either side, which looked as though they were
lost in the forest. Below them there were confused
gleams in the fields, and behind, in the distance,
the glow of the burning homesteads.

* They have burned the vicarage,' thought
Yakob, and his heart answered : ' and here am
I ... watching.'

He pressed against the window-frame, glued his
grey face to the panes and, trembling with cold,
sent out an obstinate and hostile glance into
space, as though determined to obtain permission
to keep his own heritage.

Suddenly he pricked up his ears. Something was
approaching from the distance across the forest
very cautiously. The snow was creaking under the
advancing steps. In the great silence it sounded
like the forging of iron. Those were horses'
hoofs stamping the snow.

This sound, suppressed as it was, produced in
him a peculiar sensation which starts in the
head and grips you in the nape of the neck.

312 THE SENTENCE

the consciousness that someone is hiding close to
you.

Yakob stood quite still at the window, not even
moving his pipe from one corner of his mouth to
the other. Nofc he himself seemed to be trembling,
only his rags.

The door was suddenly thrown open and a soldier
appeared on the threshold. The light of a lantern
which was suspended on his chest, filled the room.

Yakob's blood was freezing. Cossacks, hairy
like bears, were standing in the opening of the door,
the snow which covered them was shining like a
white flame. In the courtyard there were steaming
horses ; lanceheads were glittering like reliquaries.

Yakob understood that they were calling him
c old man ', and asking him questions. He extended
his hands to express that he knew nothing. Some
of the Cossacks entered, and made signs to him to
make up the fire.

He noticed that they were bringing more horses
into the yard, small, shaggy ponies like wolves.

He became calmer, and his fear disappeared ;
he only remained cautious and observant ; every-
thing that happened seemed to take hours, yet he
saw it with precision.

' It is cold ... it is cold ! '

He made up the fire for these bandits who
stretched themselves on the benches ; he felt
they were talking and laughing about him, and he
turned to them and nodded ; he thought it would
please them if he showed that he approved of them.

They asked him about God knows what, where
they were, and where they were not.

As though he knew !

Then they started all over again, while they

THE SENTENCE 313

swung their booted legs under the seats. One of
them came up to the hearth, and clapped the
crouching Yakob on his back for fun, but it hurt.
It was a resounding smack. Yakob scratched
himself and rumpled his hair, unable to under-
stand.

They boiled water and made tea ; a smell of
sausages spread about the room. Yakob bit his
jaws together and looked at the fire. He sat in
his place as though he had been glued to it.

His ears were tingling when he heard the soldiers
grinding their teeth on their food, tearing the
skin off the sausages and smacking their lips.

A large and painful void was gaping in his inside.

They devoured their food fast and noisily, and
an odour of brandy began to fill the room, and
contracted Yakob's throat.

He understood that they were inviting him to
share the meal, but he felt uneasy about that,
and though his stomach seemed to have shrunk,
and the sausage-skins and bonei which they had
thrown away lay quite close to him, he could not
make up his mind to move and pick them up.

' Come on ! '

The soldier beckoned to him. ' Come here ! '

The old man felt that he was weakening, the
savoury smell took possession of him.

But ' I shan't go,' he thought. The soldier,
gnawing a bone, repeated, ' Come on ! '

* I shan't go,' thought Yakob, and spat into the
fire, to assure himself that he was not going. All
the same . . . the terribly tempting smell made
him more and more feeble.

At last two of them got up, took him under the
arms, and sat him down between them.

314 THE SENTENCE

They made signs to him, they held the sausage
under his nose ; the tea was steaming, the brandy
smelt delicious.

Yakob put his hands on the table, then put them
behind him. Black shadows were gesticulating
on the walls. He felt unhappy about sharing a
meal with people without knowing what they
were, never having seen or known them before.
They were Russians, thus much he knew. He had
a vision of something that happened long ago,
he could not distinctly remember what it was, for
it happened so very long ago ; his grandfather
had come home from the fair that was held in
the town, shivering and groaning. There had been
outcries and curses.

' They are going to poison me like a dog,' he
thought.

The wind was changing and moaning under the
roof. The fire flickered up and went down ; the
red flame and the darkness were dancing together
on the walls. The wan moon was looking in at the
window. Yakob was sitting on the bench among
the soldiers like his own ghost.

1 They are surely going to poison me,' he kept
repeating to himself. He was still racking his
memory as to what it was that had happened so
long ago to his grandfather during the fair, at the
inn. God knows what it was . . . who could know
anything ?

* They are going to poison me ! '

His sides were heaving with his breath, he was
trying to breathe carefully, so as not to smell the
repast.

The shadows on the walls seemed to jeer at him.
The soldiers were beginning to talk thickly ; their

THE SENTENCE 315

mouths, their fingers were shining with grease.
They took off their belts and laid their swords
aside. The one next to Yakob put his arm round
his neck and whispered in his ear ; his red mouth
was quite close ; he passed his hand over Yakob's
head, and brought his arm right round his
throat. He was young and he was talking of his
father.

' Daddy,' he said, and put the sausage between
his teeth.

Yakob tried to clench his teeth ; but he bit the
sausage at the same time.

' Daddy,' said the young soldier again, holding
out the sausage for another bite ; he stroked his
head, looked into his eyes, and laughed. Yakob was
sorry for himself. Was he to be fed like a half-
blind old man ? Couldn't he eat by himself ?

When the soldiers saw that Yakob was eating,
they burst into shouts of laughter, and stamped
their feet, rattling their spurs.

He knew they were laughing at him, and it made
him easier in his mind to see that he was affording
them pleasure. He purposely made himself
ridiculous with the vague idea that he must do
something for them in payment of what they were
giving him ; they struck him on the shoulder-blades
to see him gasp with his beanlike mouth, and to
see the frightened smile run over his face like a
flash of lightning.

He ate as though from bravado, but he ate well.
They started drinking again. Yakob looked at
them with eagerness, his arms folded over his
stomach, his head bent forward ; the hairy hand
of the captain put the bottle to his mouth.

Now he could laugh his own natural laugh again,

316 THE SENTENCE

and not only from bravado, for he felt quite happy.
His frozen body was getting warmed through.
He felt as if a great danger had irrevocably

Gradually he became garrulous, although they
hardly understood what he was talking about :
1 Yes, the sausage was good ... to be sure ! ' He
nodded his head and clicked his tongue ; he also
approved of the huge chunks of bread, and when-
ever the bottle was passed round, he put his head
on one side and folded his hands, as if he were
listening to a sermon. From his neighbour's
encircling black sleeve the old face Beeped out
with equanimity, looking like a withering poppy.

' Daddy,' the loquacious Cossack would say from
time to time, and point in the direction of the
mountains ; tears were standing in his eyes.

Yakob put his swollen hand on his, and waited
for him to say more.

The soldier held his hand, pointed in the
direction of the mountains again, and sniffled.

* He respects old age . . . they are human, there 's
no denying it,' thought Yakob, and got up to put
more wood on the fire.

They seized hold of him, they would not allow
him to do it. A young soldier jumped up : ' Sit
down, you are old.'

Yakob held out his empty pipe, and the captain
himself filled it.

So there he sat, among these armed bandits.
They were dressed in sheepskins and warm
materials, had sheepskin caps on their heads ; there

was he with his bare arms, in well-worn grey
trousers, his shirt fastened together at the neck
with a piece of wood. Sitting among them,

THE SENTENCE 317

defenceless as a centipede, without anyone belong-
ing to him, puffing clouds of smoke, he inwardly
blessed this adventure, in which everything had
turned out so well. The Cossacks looked at the fire,
and they too said : c This is very nice, very nice.'

To whom would not a blazing fire on a cold
winter's night appeal ?

They got more and more talkative and asked :
* Where are your wife and children ? ' They
probably too had wives and children !

* My wife,' he said, ' has gone down to the village,
she was afraid.' They laughed and tapped their
chests : ' War is a bad thing, who would not be
afraid ? ' Yakob assented all the more readily as
he felt that for him the worst was over.

' Do you know the way to the village ? ' suddenly
asked the captain. He was almost hidden in clouds
of tobacco-smoke, but in his eyes there was a
gleam, hard and sinister, like a bullet in a puff of
smoke.

Yakob did not answer. How should he not
know the way ?

They started getting up, buckled on their belts
and swords.

Yakob jumped up to give them the rest of the
sausages and food which had been left on the
plates. But they would only take the brandy,
and left the tobacco and the broken meat.

' That will be for you . . . afterwards/ said the
young Cossack, took a red muffler off his neck and
put it round Yakob's shoulder.

4 That will keep you warm.'

Yakob laughed back at him, and submitted to
having the muffler knotted tightly round his throat.
The young soldier drew a pair of trousers from his

318 THE SENTENCE

kitbag : ' Those will keep you warm, you are old.'
He told him a long story about the trousers ; they
had belonged to his brother who had been killed.

* You know, it 's lucky to wear things like that.
Poor old fellow ! '

Yakob stood and looked at the breeches. In
the fire-light they seemed to be trembling like
feeble and stricken legs. He laid his hand on
them and smiled, a little defiant and a little
touched.

* You may have them, you may have them,'
grunted the captain, and insisted on his putting
them on at once.

When he had put them on in the chimney-
corner and showed himself, they were all doubled
up with laughter. He looked appalling in the
black trousers which were much too large for him,
a grey hood and the red muffler. His head wobbled
above the red line as if it had been fixed on a bleeding
neck. The rags on his chest showed the thin,
hairy body, the stiff folds of the breeches produced
an effect as if he were not walking on the ground
but floating above it.

The captain gave the command, the soldiers
jumped up and looked once more round the cottage;
the young Cossack put the sausage and meat in
a heap and covered it with a piece of bread.
' For you,' he said once more, and they turned to
leave.

Yakob went out with them to bid them God-
speed. A vague presentiment seized him on the
threshold, when he looked out at the frozen world,
the stars, like nails fixed into the sky, and the
light of the moon on everything. He was afraid.

The men went up to their horses, and he saw that

THE SENTENCE 319

there were others outside. The wind ruffled the
shaggy little ponies' manes and threw snow upon
them. The horses, restless, began to bite each other,
and the Cossacks, scattered on the snow like
juniper-bushes, reined them in.

The cottage-door remained open. The lucky
horseshoe, nailed to the threshold, glittered in the
light of the heart Ji, which threw blood-red streaks
between the legs of the table, across the door and
beyond it on to the snow.

' I wonder whether they will ever return to their
families ? ' he thought, and : ' How queer it is that
one should meet people like that.'

He was sorry for them.

The captain touched his arm and asked the way.

' Straight on.'

4 Far ? '

' No, not far, not at all far.'

' Where is it ? '

The little group stood in front of him by the side
of their wolf-like ponies. He drew back into the
cottage.

The thought confusedly crossed his mind :
' After all, we did sit together and ate together,
two and two, like friends.'

He began hurriedly, ' Turn to the left at the cross-
roads, then across the fields as far as Gregor's
cottage . . .'

The captain made a sign that he did not under-
stand.

He thought : ' Perhaps they will lose their way
and make a fuss ; then they will come back to the
cottage and eat the meat. I will go with them as
far as the cross-roads.'

They crept down the road, passed the clump of

320 THE SENTENCE

pine-trees which came out in a point beside the
brook, and went along the valley on the slippery
stones. A large block of ice lay across the brook,
shaped like a silver plough ; the waves surrounded
it as with golden crescents. The snow creaked
under the soldiers' feet. Yakob walked beside
them on his sandals, like a silent ghost.

' Now keep straight on as far as the cross,' he
said, pointing to a dark object with a long shadow.

' I can't see anything,' said the captain.

He accompanied them as far as the cross, by the
side of which stood a little shrine ; the wan saint
was wearing a crown of icicles.

From that point the village could be seen
across the fields. Yakob discovered that the chain
of lights which he had observed earlier in the
evening, had come down from the mountains,
for it now seemed to be close to the village.

Silence reigned in the sleeping world, every
step could be heard.

This silence filled Yakob's heart with a wild
fear ; he turned round with a feeling of helplessness
and looked back at his cottage. Probably the fire
was now going out ; a red glow appeared and
disappeared on the windows.

Beyond the cross the road, lay through low-
lying ground, and was crossed by another road
which led abruptly downwards into fields.

Yakob hesitated.

' Come on, old man, come on,' they called to
him, and walked on without waiting for his answer.

The Cossacks dug their heels into the rugged ice
of the road, and tumbled about in all directions.
They had left their horses at the cross-roads.
Each one kept a close hold on his gun, so that there

THE SENTENCE 321

should be no noise. They were whispering to each
other ; it sounded as if a congregation were
murmuring their prayers. Yakob led them, and
mentally he held fast to every bush, every lump of
ice, saying to himself at every step that now he
was going to leave them, they could not miss the
road now. But he was afraid.

They no longer whispered, they had become
taciturn as they pushed onwards, stumbling,
breathing hard.

' As far as Gregor's cottage, and then no
more ! '

The effect of the drink was passing off. He
rubbed his eyes, drew his rags across his chest.
' What was he doing, leading these people about
on this night ? '

He suddenly stopped where the field-road crossed
theirs ; the soldiers in front and behind threw
themselves down. It was as if the ground had
swallowed them.

A black horse was standing in the middle of
the road, with extended nostrils. Its black mane,
covered with hoar-frost, was tossed about its head ;
the saddle-bags, which were fur-lined, swung in the
breeze ; large dark drops were falling from its
leg to the ground.

* Damn it ! ' cursed the captain.

The horse looked meekly at them, and stretched
its head forward submissively. Yakob was sorry
for the creature ; perhaps one could do something
for it. He stood still beside it, and again pointed
out the road.

' I have done enough, I shan't go any further ! '
He scratched his head and smiled, thinking that
this was a good opportunity for escape.

230

M

322 THE SENTENCE

' Come on,' hissed the captain so venomously in
his ear that he marched forward without delay ;
they followed.

A dull fear mixed with resentment gripped him
with terrible force. He now ran at the head like
a sheep worried by watch-dogs.

They stopped in front of the cottage, silent,
breathless, expectant.

Yakob looked at his companions with boundless
astonishment. Their faces under their fur-caps
had a tense, cruel look, their brows were wrinkled,
their eyes glittered.

From all sides other Cossacks were advancing.

He noticed only now that there were some
lying concealed behind the fence on the straw in
a confused mass.

He shuddered ; thick drops of perspiration stood
on his forehead. The beating of his heart filled
his head like the noise of a hammer, it seemed to
fill everything. In spite of the feeling that he was
being forced to do this thing, he again heard the
voice calling : ' Yakob, Yakob ! '

Up the hillock where Gregor's cottage stood,
they advanced on all fours.

He clambered upwards, thinking of his wife, and
of the cow he had loosed. Fear veiled his eyes,
he saw black spots dancing.

Gregor's cottage was empty as a graveyard.
It had been abandoned ; the open doors creaked
on their hinges. Under the window stood a cradle,
covered with snow.

Silently the soldiers surrounded the cottage,
and Yakob went with them, as though mesmerized
by terror, mute and miserable.

They had hardly got round, when a red glow shot

THE SENTENCE 323

up from the other side of the village. The soldiers
threw themselves down in the snow.

The thundering of guns began on all sides ;
blood-red lights came flying overhead. An
appalling noise broke out, reinforced by the echo
from the mountains, as though the whole world
were going to perish. The Cossacks advanced,
trembling.

Yakob advanced with them, for the captain had
hit him across the head. He saw stars when he
received the blow, gesticulated wildly, and staggered
along the road.

He could distinguish the road running out from
the forest like a silver thread. As they advanced,
they came under a diabolically heavy rifle fire ;
bullets were raining upon them from all sides.

Here and there he heard moans already, when
one of the soldiers fell bleeding on the snow.
Close to him fell the young Cossack who had given
him the muffler and breeches. He held out his
hand, groaning. Yakob wanted to stop, but the
captain would not let him, but rapped him over the
head again with his knuckles.

The soldiers lay in heaps. The rest wavered,
fell back, hid in the ditch or threw themselves
down. The rifle-fire came nearer, the outlines and
faces of the advancing enemy could already be
distinguished. Another blow on the head stretched
Yakob to the ground, and he feigned death. The
Coss'acks retreated, the others advanced, and he
understood that they belonged to his friends.

When he got up, he was immediately surrounded
by them, taken by the scruff of the neck and so.
violently shaken, that he tumbled on his knees.

Gunfire was roaring from the mountains,

324 THE SENTENCE

shadows of soldiers flitted past him, the wounded
Cossacks groaned in the snow. Young, well-
nourished looking men were bending over him.
Looking up into their faces, he crossed his hands
over his chest and laughed joyfully.

* Ah, those Russians, those Russians . . . the
villains ! ' he croaked, ' aho, aho, ho hurlai ! ' He
rolled his tear-filled eyes.

Things were happening thick and fast. From
where the chimney stood close to the water, near
the manor-house, the village was burning. He
could feel the heat and soot and hear the shouting
of the crowd through, the noise of the gunfire.
Now he would see his wife and children again, the
friendly soldiers surely had saved them. The
young Cossack was still struggling on the ground ;
now he stretched himself out for his eternal sleep.

' Ah, the villains ! ' Yakob repeated ; the great
happiness which filled his heart rushed to his lips in
incoherent babblings. ' The villains, they have
served me nicely ! '

He felt his bleeding head, crouched on his heels
and got up. The fleshy red faces were still passing
close to him, breathing harder and harder. Fear
rose and fell in him like the flames of the burning
village ; again everything was swallowed up in
indescribable noise.

Suddenly Yakob began to sob ; he threw him-
self down at the soldiers' feet and wept bitterly,
as though he would weep out his soul and the marrow
of his bones.

They lifted him up, almost unconscious, and

• took him along the high road, under escort with

fixed bayonets. His tears fell fast upon the snow,

and thus he came into his own village, among his

THE SENTENCE 325

own people, pale as a corpse, with poison in his
heart.

He looked dully at the blazing wooden church-
spire where it stood enveloped in flames as though
wrapped in an inflated glittering cloak. Dully he
let his eyes wander over the hedges and fences ;
everything seemed unreal, as things seen across
a distant wave or a downpour of rain, out of reach
and strange.

He was standing where the field-path joined the
high road. The soldiers sat down on a heap of
stones and lighted their cigarettes.

Yakob, trembling all over, looked at his own
black shadow ; fugitives arrived from the burning
village and swarmed past him ; the rifle fire now
sounded from the direction of the mountains.

Suddenly Gregor's cottage burst into flames.
A blood-red glow inflated the clouds of smoke,
trembled on the snow and ran over the pine-trees
like gold.

Soldiers were arriving from that direction,
streaming with blood, supported by their comrades.

Yakob stood motionless, looking at his shadow ;
fear was burning within him. He looked at the
sky above the awful chaos on the earth, and became
calmer. He tried to remember how it had all
happened.

They had come, had given him food. His wife
and children were probably safe in the manor-
house. Blinking his swollen eyelids, he tried to
deceive himself, crouched down near the guard
who was smoking, and asked him for fire. His fear
miraculously disappeared.

He began to talk rapidly to the soldier : ' I was
sitting . . . the wind was moaning . . .' he told

326 THE SENTENCE

him circumstantially how he was sitting, what he
had been thinking, how the shots had struck his
cottage.

The soldier put his rifle between his knees,
crossed his hands over his sleeves, spat out and
sighed.

' But you have had underhand dealings with the
Russians.'

' No . . . no.'

' Tell that to another.'

' I shall,' replied Yakob calmly.

* And who showed them the way ? '

' Who ? ' said Yakob.

' Who showed them the way over here V Or
did they find it on the map ? '

' Yes, on the map,' assented Yakob, as though
he were quite convinced.

' Well, who did ? ' said the soldier, wagging his
head.

' Who ? ' repeated Yakob like an echo.

' I suppose it wasn't I ? ' said the soldier.

' I ? ' asked Yakob.

The other three soldiers approached inquisi-
tively to where Yakob was crouching.

' A nice mess you've made,' one of them said,
pointing to the wounded who were arriving across
the fields. ' Do you understand ? '

Yakob fixed his eyes on the soldiers' boots, and
would not look in that direction. But he could
not understand what it all meant ... all this noise,
and the firing that ran from hill to hill.

' Nice mess this you've made, old man.'

' Yes.'

' You ! '

Yakob looked up at them, and had the sensation

THE SENTENCE 327

of being deep down at the bottom of a well instead
of crouching at their feet.

' That is a lie, a lie, a lie ! ' he cried, beating his
chest ; his hair stood on end. The soldiers sat
down in a row on the stones. They were young,
cold, tired.

' But now they'll play the deuce with you.'

' Why ? ' said Yakob softly, glancing sideways
at them.

' You're an old ass,' remarked one of them.

' But,' he began again, ' I was sitting, looking
at the snow. . . .'

He had a great longing to talk to them, they
looked as if they would understand, although they
were so young.

* I was sitting . . . give me some fire ... do you
come from these parts yourselves ? '

They did not answer.

He thought of his cottage, the bread and sausage,
the black horse at the cross-roads.

' They beat me,' he sobbed, covering his face
with his rags.

The soldiers shrugged their shoulders : ' Why
did you let them ? '

' 0 . . . o . . .» o ! ' cried the old man. But
tears would no longer wash away a conviction
which was taking possession of him, searing his
soul as the flames seared the pines.

' Why did you let them ? Aren't you ashamed
of yourself ? '

No, he was not ashamed of himself for that. But
that he had shown them the way . . . the way they
had come by ... what did it all mean ? All his tears
would not wash away this conviction : that he had
shown them the way . . .the way they had come by.

328 THE SENTENCE

Guns were thundering from the hills, the village
was burning, the mill was burning ... a black
mass of people was surrounding him. More and
more wounded came in from the fields, covered
with grey mud. The flying sparks from the mill
fell at his feet.

A detachment of soldiers was returning.

' Get up, old man,' cried his guard ; ' we're off ! '

Yakob jumped to his feet, hitched up his
.trousers, and went off perplexed, under cover of
four bayonets that seemed to carry a piece of sky
between them like a starred canopy.

His fear grew as he approached the village. He
did not see the familiar cottages and hedges ; he
felt as though he were moving onwards without
a goal. Moving onwards and yet not getting any
f archer. Moving onwards and yet hoping not to
get to the end of the journey.

He sucked his pipe and paid no attention to
anything ; but the village was on his conscience.

The fear which filled his heart was not like that
which he had felt when the Cossacks arrived, but
a senseless fear, depriving him of sight and hearing
... as though there were no place for him in the
world.

* Are we going too fast ? ' asked the guard,
hearing Yakob's heavy breathing.

* All right, all right,' he answered cheerfully.
The friendly words had taken his fear away.

' Take it easy,' said the soldier. * We will go
more slowly. Here 's a dry cigarette, smoke.'

Without turning round, he offered Yakob a
cigarette, which he put behind his ear.

They entered the village. It smelt of burning,
like a gipsy camp. The road seemed to waver in

THE SENTENCE 329

the flickering of the flames, the wind howled in the
timber.

Yakob looked at the sky. Darkness and stars
melted into one.

He would not look at the village. He knew there
were only women and children in the cottages, the
men had all gone. This thought was a relief to
him, he hardly knew why.

Meanwhile the detachment of soldiers, instead
of going to the manor-house, had turned down
a narrow road which led to the mill. They stopped
and formed fours. Every stone here was familiar
to Yakob, and yet, standing in the snow up to his
knees, he was puzzled as to where he was. If he
could only sleep off this nightmare ... he did
not recognize the road . . . the night was far
advanced, and the village not asleep as usual . . .
if they would only let him go home \

He would return to-morrow.

The mill was burning out. Cinders were flying
across from the granaries ; the smoke bit into the
eyes of the people who were standing about looking
upwards, with their arms crossed.

Everything showed up brilliantly in the glare ;
the water was dripping from rung to rung of the
silent wheel, and mixed its sound with that of
the fire.

The adjoining buildings were fenced round with
a small running fire ; smoke whirled round the
tumbling roof like a shock of hair shot through
with flames. The faces of the bystanders assumed
a metallic glow.

The wails of the miller and his family could be
heard through the noise of battle, of water, and
of fire.

M 3 f

330 THE SENTENCE

It was as if the crumbling walls, the melting
joints, the smoke, the cries were dripping down the
wheel, transformed into blood, and were carried
down by the black waves and swallowed up in the
infinite abyss of the night.

' They beat me. . . .' Yakob justified himself to
himself, when the tears rose to his eyes again. No
tears could wash away the conviction that it was
he who had shown them the way by which they
had come.

The first detachment was waiting for the arrival
of the second. It arrived, bringing in prisoners,
Cossacks. A large number of them were being
marched along ; they did not walk in order but
irregularly, like tired peasants. They were laugh-
ing, smoking cigarettes, and pushing against each
other. Among them were those who had come to
his cottage ; he recognized the captain and others.

When they saw Yakob they waved their hands
cordially and called out to him, ' Old man, old man ! '

Yakob did not reply ; he shrunk into himself.
Shame filled his soul. He looked at them vacantly.
His forehead was wrinkled as with a great effort to
remember semething, but he could think of nothing
but a huge millwheel turning under red, smooth
waves. Suddenly he remembered : it was the young
Cossack who had given him his brother's 'clothes.

' The other one,' he shouted, pointing to his
muffler, ' where did you leave him ? '

Soldiers came between them and pushed the
crowd away.

There was a terrific crash in the mill ; a thick
red cloud rushed upwards, dotted with sparks.
Under this cloud an ever-increasing mass of people
was flocking towards the spot where Yakob was ;

THE SENTENCE 331

they were murmuring, pulling the soldiers by their
cloaks. Women, children, and old men pressed in
a circle round him, gesticulating, shouting : ' It
was he ... he ... he !'

Words were lost in the chaos of sounds, faces
became merely a dense mass, above which fists
were flung upwards like stones.

Yakob tripped about among the soldiers like
a fawn in a cage, raised and lowered his head, and
clutched his rags ; he could not shut his quivering
mouth, and from his breast came a cry like the
sob of a child.

The crowd turned upon him with fists and
nails ; he hid his face in his rags, stopped his ears
with his fingers, and shook his head.

The prisoners had been dispatched, and it was
Yakob's turn to be taken before the officer in
command of the battalion.

' Say that I ... that I . . .' Yakob entreated his
guard.

' What are you in such a hurry for ? '

* Say that I . . .'

The soldiers were sitting round a camp-fire,
piling up the faggots. Soup was boiling in a
cauldron.

' Say that I . . . ' he begged again, standmg in
the thick smoke.

At last he was taken into the school-house.

The officer in command stood in the middle of
the room witn a cigarette between his fingers.

' I ... I ... ' groaned Yakob, already in the door.
His dishevelled hair made him look like a sea-
urchin ; his face was quite disfigured with black
marks of violence ; behind his bleeding left'ear still
stuck the cigarette. His swollen upper lip was

332 THE SENTENCE

drawn sideways and gave him the expression of
a ghastly smile. His eyes looked out helpless,
dispirited, from his swollen lids.

' What do you want to say ? ' asked the officer,
without looking at him. Something suddenly
came over him.

' It was I,' he said hoarsely.

The soldier made his report.

' They gave me food,' Yakob said, ' and this
muffler and breeches, and they beat me.'

' It was you who showed them the way ? '

' It was.'

' You did show them the way ? '

He nodded.

' Did they beat you in the cottage ? '

Yakob hesitated. ' In the cottage we were having
supper.'

' They beat you afterwards, on the way ? '

He again hesitated, and looked into the officer's
eyes. They were clear, calm eyes. The guard
came a step nearer.

The officer looked down, turned towards the
window and asked more gently : ' You had supper
together in the cottage. Then you went out with
them. Did they beat you on the way ? '

He turned suddenly and looked at Yakob. The
peasant stood, looked at the grey snowflakes out-
side the window, and his face, partly black, partly
pallid, was wrinkled in deep folds.

' Well, what have you got to say ? '

c It was I . . .' This interrogation made him
alternately hot and cold.

' You who beat them, and not they who beat
you ? ' laughed the officer.

' The meat is still there in the cottage, and here

THE SENTENCE 333

is what they gave me,' he said, holding up the
muffler and tobacco.

The officer threw his cigarette away and turned
on his heel. Yakob's eyes became dull, his arm
with the muffler dropped.

The officer wrote an order. ' Take him away.*

They passed the schoolmaster and some women,
and soldiers in the passage.

' Well . . . well . . . ' they whispered, leaning
against the wall.

The guard made a sign with his hand. Yakob,
behind him, looked dully into the startled faces of
the bystanders.

' How frightened he looks . . . how they have
beaten him . . . how frightened he looks ! ' they
murmured.

He put the muffler round his neck again, for he
felt cold.

' That 's him, that 's him,' growled the crowd
outside.

The manor-house was reached. The light from
the numerous windows fell upon horses and gun-
carriages drawn up in the yard.

* What do you want ? ' cried the sentry to the
crowd, pushing them back.

He nodded towards Yakob. ' Where is he to go ? '

' That sort . . .' murmured the crowd. Yakob's
guard delivered his order. They stopped in the
porch. The pillars threw long shadows which lost
themselves towards the fence and across the waves
of the stream beyond, in the darkness of the night

The heat in the waiting-room was overpowering
This was the room where the bailiff had so often
given him his pay. The office no longer existed.
Soldiers were lying asleep everywhere.

334: THE SENTENCE

They passed on into a brilliantly lighted room.
The staff was quartered there. The general took
a few steps across the room, murmured something
and stood still in front of Yakob.

' Ah, that is the man ? ' he turned and looked at
Yakob with his blue eyes that shot glances quick
as lightning from under bushy grey eyebrows.

' It was I,' ejaculated Yakob hoarsely.

' It was yeu who showed them the way ? '

Yakob became calmer. He felt he would be able
to make himself more quickly understood here.
' It was.'

' You brought them here ? '

' Yes.'

He passed his hand over his hair and shrank
into himself again. He looked at the brilliant lights.

' Do you know what is the punishment for that ? '

The general eame a step nearer ; Yakob felt
overawed by the feeling of strength and power
that emanated from him. He was choking. Yes,
he understood and yet did not understand.

* What have you got to say for yourself ! '

' We had supper together . . .' he began, but
stopped, for the general frowned and eyed him
coldly. Yakob looked towards the window and
listened to hear the sound of wind and waves.
The general was still looking at him, and so they
stood for a moment which seemed an eternity to
Yakob, the man in the field-grey uniform who
looked as if he had been sculptured in stone, and
the quailing, shrunken, shivering form, covered
with dirt and rags. Yakob felt as though a heavy
weight were resting on him. Then both silently
looked down.

1 Take him back to the battalion/

THE SENTENCE 335

The steely sound of the command moved some-
thing in the souls of the soldiers, and took the
enjoyment of their sleep from them.

They returned to the school-house. The crowd,
as though following a thief caught in the act, ran
by their side again.

They found room for the old man in a shed,
some one threw him a blanket. Soldiers were
sleeping in serried ranks. Their heavy breathing
mixed with the sound of wind and waves, and the
cold blue light of the moon embraced everything.

Yakob buried himself in the straw, looked out
through a hole in the boarding and wept bitterly.

' What a,re you crying for ? ' asked the sentry
outside, and tapped his shoulder with his gun.

Yakob did not answer.

t Thinking of your wife ? J the soldier gossiped,
walking up and down outside the shed. * You're
old, what good is your wife to you ? ' The soldier
stopped and stretched his arms till the joints
cracked.

' Or your children ? Never mind, they'll get on
in the world without a helpless old man like you.'

Yakob was silent, and the soldier crouched down
near him.

* Old man, you ought . . .'

* No . . .' tremblingly came from the inside.

* You see,' the soldier paced up and down again,
' you are thinking of your cottage. I can under-
stand that. But do you think the cottage will
be any the worse off for your death ? '

The soldier's simple and dour words outside in
the blue night, his talk of Yakob's death, of his
own death which might come at any moment,
slowly brought sleep to Yakob.

336 THE SENTENCE

In the morning he awoke with a start. The
sun was shining on the snow, the mountains
glittered like glass. The trees on the slopes were
covered with millions of shining crystals ; fresh-
ness floated between heaven and earth. Yakob
stepped out of the shed, greeted the sentry and sat
down on the boards, blinking his eyes.

{The air was fresh and cold, tiny atoms of hoar-
frost were flying about. Yakob felt the sun's
warmth thawing his limbs, caressing him. He let
himself be absorbed into the pure, rosy morning.

Doors creaked, and voices rang out clear and
fresh. Opposite to him a squadron of Uhlans were
waiting at the farrier's, who came out, black
as a charcoal-burner, and charted with them.
They were laughing, their eyes shone. From
inside the forge the hammer rang out like a bell.
Yakob held his head in his hand and listened.
At each stroke he shut his eyes. The soldiers
brought him a cup of hot coffee ; he drank it and
lighted his pipe.

The murmuring of the brook, punctuated by the
hammer-strokes, stimulated his thoughts till they
became clearer, limpid as the stream.

1 It was I ... it was I . . . ' he silently confided to
all the fresh voices of the morning.

The guard again took him away with fixed
bayonets. He knew where he was going. They
would go through the village and stop at the wall
of the cemetery.

The sky was becoming overcast, the beauty of
the morning was waning. They called at the
school-house for orders. Yakob remained outside
the open window.

* I won't . .'he heard a voice.

THE SENTENCE 337

' Nor I . . .' another.

Yakob leant against the fence, supported his
temples on his fists and watched the snow-clouds
and mists.

A feeling of immense, heavy weariness came over
him, and made him limp. He could see the ruins
of the mill, the tumbled-down granaries, the
broken doors. The water trickled down the wheel ;
smoke and soot were floating on the water, yet the
water flowed on.

Guilty. . . not guilty. . . . What did it all matter?

' Do you hear ? ' he asked of the water. ' Do
you hear ? ' he asked of his wife and children aad
his little property.

They took him here and they took him there.
They made him wait outside houses, and he sat
down on the steps as if he had never been used to
anything else. He picked up a dry branch and
gently tapped the snow with it and waited. He
waited as in a dream, going round and round the
wish that it might all be over soon.

While he was waiting, the crowd amused them-
selves with shaking their fists at him ; he was
thankful that his wife seemed to have gone away to
the town and did not see him.

At last his guard went off in a bad temper. A
soldier on horseback remained with him.

' Come on, old man,' he said, ' no one will have
anything to do with it.'

Yakob glanced at him ; the soldier and his horse
seemed to be towering above the cottages, above
the trees of the park with their flocks of circling
crows. He looked into the far distance.

c It was I.'

* You're going begging, old man.'

338 THE SENTENCE

Again they began their round, and behind them
followed the miller's wife and other women. His
legs were giving way, as though they were rushes.
He took off his cap and gave a tired look in the
direction of his cottage.

At last they joined a detachment which was
starting off on the old road. They went as far
as Gregor's cottage, then to the cross-roads, and
in single file down the path. From time to time
isolated gunshots rang out.

They sat down by the side of a ditch.

' We've got to finish this business,' said the
sergeant, and scratched his head. ' No one would
come forward voluntarily ... I have been
ordered. . . .'

The soldiers looked embarrassed and drew away,
looking at Yakob.

He hid his head between his knees, and his
thoughts dwelt on everything, sky, water, moun-
tains, fire.

His heart was breaking ; a terrible sweat stood
on his brows.

Shots rang out.

A deep groan escaped from Yakob's breast, a
groan like a winter-wind. He sprang up, stood on
the edge of the ditch, sighed with all the strength
of his old breast and fell like a branch.

Puffs of smoke rose from the ditch and from
the forests.

4 P. P. C.'

(A LADY'S NARRATIVE)

[An incident during the early part of the World War,
when the Russians, retreating before the victorious
Austro-German armies, destroyed everything.]

BY

MME RYGIER-NALKOWSKA

AT the time when the bridges over the Vistula
still existed, connecting by stone and iron the
banks of the town now split in two, I drove to the
opposite side of the river into the country to my
abandoned home, for I thought I might still
succeed in transporting to the town the rest of the
articles I had left behind, and so preserve them
from a doubtful fate.

I was specially anxious to bring back the cases
full of books that had been early packed and duly
placed in a garret. They included one part of the
library that had long ago been removed, but
owing to their considerable weight they had been
passed over in the hurry of the first removal.

The house had been locked up and entrusted to
the sure care of Martin, an old fellow bent half to
the ground, who with his wife also kept an eye on
the rest of the buildings, the garden, and the
forest.

When I arrived I found the whole of my wild,
forgotten forest-world absolutely changed and

340 ' P. P. C.'

transformed into one great camp. But the empty
wood was moving like a living thing, like the
menacing * Birnam wood ' before the eyes of
Macbeth. It was full of an army, with each of their
handsome big horses tied to a pine in the forest.
Farther off across the roots could be seen small
grey tents stretched on logs. Most of the exhausted
blackened men were lying all over the ground and
sleeping among the quiet beasts. Along the peace-
ful, silky forest paths, in a continuous line, like
automobiles in the Monte Pincio park, stood small
field kitchens on wheels, gunpowder boxes, and
carts.

At the foot of the forest, on the flowery meadow,
unmown this year, were feeding pretty Ukraine
cattle driven from some distant place. Quiet little
sheep, not brought up in our country, were eating
grass on a neighbouring hillock.

Martin's bent figure was hastily coming along
the road from the house, making unintelligible
signs. When he was quite close he explained in
a low discontented voice, and as if washing his
hands of all responsibility, that I had been robbed.
' I was going round, ' he said, ' this very morning,
as it was my duty to do. There was no one to be
seen. Now the whole forest is full of soldiers.
They came, opened the house, and stole absolutely
everything. My wife came upon them as they
were going out ! '

4 What ? Stole everything ? ' I asked.

Martin was silent a moment ; at last he said :
c Well, for instance, the samovar ; absolutely
everything ! '

I found the front door, in fact, wide open, and
in it Martin's wife, with gloom depicted on her

' P. P. C.' 341

face. The floors were covered with articles dragged
out of the drawers in the rooms on the upper floor.
In the garrets scores of books in the most appalling
disorder were scattered from out of parcels and
boxes. Unbound volumes had been shaken, so
that single sheets and maps were found in various
places or not found at all.

I went into the veranda. In the green of the
astonished garden, now paling in the dusk, men
were sleeping here and there. There was a specially
large swarm in the part of the garden where ripe
raspberries were growing. Nearer the house, under
a shady d'Amarlis pear tree, four soldiers were
lying and playing at cards. They all had attached
to their caps masks to protect them from poison-
gas with two thick glasses for the eyes, and with
this second great pair of eyes on them their heads
looked like those of certain worms. In the packs
of cards I recognized without trouble some that
used to lie by our fire-place. I went up to the
soldiers and pointed out that they had plundered
my house, and that I missed several things, and
was anxious to find them, especially women's
dresses not of use to any one there, and that
I wanted to be assured that no one would come
into the house in future — at least till I had packed
afresh the damaged books and collected what
remained.

I could speak freely, for none of them so much
as thought of interrupting me. Then I was silent,
whereupon the soldier lying nearest raised his head
— the movement put me in mind of a hydrostatic
balance — gave me a long look and said : ' What
have we to do with your books ? We don't even
understand your language ! ' Then, looking at me

342 ' P. P. C.'

amiably with his double pair of eyes, he took a bite
of a half -ripe pear as green as a cucumber.

' Nothing to be got here : you must go to an
officer,' Martin advised, as he stood a little to the
side of me.

The officers had their quarters about a quarter of
a mile away, in a small house near the forest path.
The mist passed off, and in the darkness in the
middle of the wood a number of fires shone. One
could hear a confused noise, unknown soldiers'
songs, and mournful music. We soon reached our
destination. We were asked to go into the nearly
empty room, where there was a murmur of voices
of soldiers ; they were all standing. At a long
table, by the light of a small candle without a candle-
stick, two men were writing something, and one
was dipping in a plate proofs of photographs.
Some one asked if I felt any fear, and when
I hastened to reassure him entirely, he gave me
a chair. Martin stood, doubled up, at the door.

A moment later a young officer, informed by
a soldier of my arrival, came down from above,
clapped his spurs together in a salute and inquired
what I wanted. When he heard my business his
brow darkened and he became severe. ' Till now
we have had no instance of such an occurrence,'
he informed me with much dignity, and his voice
sounded sincere. ' Where is the place ? ' he asked.
' At the end of the wood ? '

' Quite right,' I answered.

' Ah, then, it is not our soldiers,' he said with
relief ; * there is a detachment of machine gunners
there, and they have no officers at all.'

He expressed a wish, in spite of the lateness of
the hour, to examine the damage personally with

' P. P. C.' 343

two other officers. They assured me that the
things were bound to be found, and punishment
would fall on the guilty under the severe military law.

We all walked back through the camp by a forest
track which I had known from childhood as well
as the paths of my own garden. The mist had
thickened, the fires seemed veiled as with cobwebs.
Everywhere around horses were eating hay and
scraping up the ground solid with pine-tree roots.
Songs ended in silence and began again farther off.

On the way I explained directly to the officers
that my special object was not to get back the
things or to punish the thieves, and certainly not
according to ' the severe military law '. How was
I to trace the thieves ? My watchman would
certainty not recognize them, because he was not
familiar with shoulder straps, and would say that
in that respect all soldiers were alike. I was only
afraid of further damage in the house, its locks
being rotten, and what I desired was that in
case the army stayed there, a guard should be
appointed.

So we reached the house. Martin conducted the
gentlemen through the rooms, and by the light
of a candle showed them the condition of things.
The officers, with obvious annoyance, discovered
a * veritable pogrom '. They could not be expected
to understand what the loss incurred by the
scattering of so many books meant to me ; one of
them smelt of English ' Sweet Pea ' perfume, like a
bouquet of flowers. Yet they clinked their spurs
together, and as they went out they again apolo-
gized for the injury done and appointed a sentry,
who went on guard at midnight.

344 ' P. P. C.'

II

DAY came full of clouds that hung right over the
tojjs of the trees, full of wind and cold, but dry —
quite a genuine summer day.

Round the house from early morning soldiers
were moving about, mitigating the weariness of
the man on guard. Now one, now another wanted
to see how the pillaged house looked. Quite simply
they walked through the open door into the
interior, finishing what remained of the unripe
apples they had picked in the garden. One stood
still on the threshold, put his hand to his cap,
bowed, and duly asked, ' if the lady would allow ? '

Then he entered, stooped, and picked up two
books from the ground. ' May I be permitted to
take the liberty of asking to whom these books
belong ? What is the reason for their exceedingly
great number ? Do they serve a special depart-
ment of study ? ' He made his inquiries in such
a stilted way that I was forced laboriously to keep
my answers on the same level. He owned he would
be happy if I would agree that he should help in
the work, for he had not had a book in his hand
for a year. He therefore stayed in the garret
and with the anxiety of a genuine bibliomaniac
collected volumes of similar size and shape, put
together scattered maps and tied up bundles.
Martin looked distrustfully at this assistant, and
annoyance was depicted on the face of Martin's
wife.

In front of the house one of the soldiers had
brought cigarettes to the man on guard. Another
turned to him ironically : * Well, under the circum-
stances I suppose you are going to light one ? '

' P. P. C.' 345

' You are not allowed to light a cigarette on
guard ? '

' It wouldn't be allowed ; but perhaps, as there
is no officer to see me. . . .'

The speaker was a young, fair-haired, amiable
boy, assistant to an engine driver in some small
town in Siberia. He was quite ready to relate his
history. He could not wonder sufficiently how it
came to pass that he was still alive. He had run
away from the trenches at S., certain that he would
die if he were not taken prisoner. The fire of the
enemy was concentrated on their entrenchment, so
as to cut off all chance of escape. Every one
round him fell, and he was constantly feeling him-
self to ascertain that he was not wounded. ' You
see, lady, when they turn their whole fire on one
spot, you must get away ; it rains so thick that no
one can stand it.'

' Well, and didn't you fire just as thick ? '

He looked with amiable wonder. ' When we
had nothing to fire ? ' he said good-humouredly.

Well, somehow it all ended happily. But, then,
the others, his companions . . . ah, how dashing
they had been, what fellows ! An admirable,
glorious army, the S. Regiment ! Almost everyone
was killed ; it wag sad to see them. Now they had
to fill up the gaps with raw recruits ; but it was
no longer the old army ; there will never be such
fighting again. ... It will be hard to discipline them.
They had fought continuously f^r a year. A whole
year in the war ! They had been close to Drialdow,
in Lwow, even close to Cracow itself. ' Do you
know Cracow, lady ? '

' I do.'

' Well, then, just there, just five miles from

346 ' P. P. C.'

Cracow. The bitter cold of a windy day pene-
trated to our bones. To think that the town was
only five miles off ! '

I went away to return to the packing of my
books. At the door I noticed a woman standing,
a neighbour ; she was frightened and timid.

' I suppose they have robbed you, lady ? '

1 They have.'

' And now they are at it in my place,' she said
softly. ' Their cattle, have eaten up my whole
meadow, and they are tearing up everything in
my kitchen-garden. I was looking this morning ;
not a cucumber left. To-morrow they will begin
mowing the oats ; the officer gave me an advance
in money, and the rest he paid with note of hand.
Is it true that they are going to burn every-
thing ? '

' I don't know.'

The new watchman came up, young, black-eyed,
a gloomy Siberian villager. When he laughed, his
teeth shone like claws.

' We have stolen nothing, but we are ordered
to do penance,' he said defiantly to Martin.
' Very well, we'll do it. It was worse in the
trenches — a great deal worse ! Often we were so
close to the enemy that we could see them per-
fectly. We used to take off our caps, raise them in
the air ; they fired. If they hit, then we waved a
white handkerchief : that meant they had made
a hit. Later on tljey would show their caps and
we fired.'

' Are you from a distance ? ' Martin asked.

' From Siberia/ he answered, and turned his
head. ' We were four brothers all serving in the
army ; two still write to me, the fourth is gone. Our

' P. P. C.' 347

father is an old man, and neither ploughs nor sows.
He sold a beautiful colfc for 150 roubles, for what is
the use of a horse when there is no more farming ?
God ! what a country this is,' he continued with
pity. ' With us in Siberia a farmer with no more
than ten cows is called poor. We are rich 1 We
have land where wheat grows like anything.
Manure we cart away and burn ; we've no use
for it. Ah! Siberia!'

The woman, my neighbour, sat in silence. It
was strange to her to hear of this country as the
Promised Land. When she had to go she said,
thoughtfully and nervously : ' Of course if
I hadn't sold him the oats they would have taken
them. Even those two roubles on account were
better than that.'

I went upstairs again, and by evening the work
of packing the books and things was completed.

The soldier who loved books made elaborate
remarks on them also to his simple comrades. He
spoke about the psychical aspect of fighting, the
physiology of heroic deeds, the resignation of those
destined for death, &c. He was a thoughtful man
and unquestionably sensitive ; but all that he
said had the stamp of oriental thought, systemati-
cally arranged in advance and quite perfectly
expressed at the moment, free from the immediate
naivete of elementary knowledge.

' Do you belong,' I said, ' to this detachment of
machine gunners ? '

' Unquestionably ; I am, as you see, lady,
a simple soldier.'

' I should like to see a machine gun at close
quarters. Can I ? '

I immediately perceived that I had asked some-

348 ' P. P. C.'

thing out of order. He was confused and turned
pale.

' I have never seen a machine gun,' I continued,
* up to now ; but, of course, if there are any
difficulties. . . .'

' It is not that,' he answered, with hesitation.
' I must tell you honestly, lady, we haven't a single
cartridge left.'

He checked himself and was silent ; at that
moment he did not show the repose of a psychologist.

1 Do you understand, lady ? '

'I do.'

' And also we have absolutely no officers. There is
nothing but what you see there in the forest ; the
rest are pitiful remnants — some 200 soldiers left
out of two regiments.'

E&rly next day Martin joyously informed me
that in the night the soldiers had gone away. They
had burnt nothing, but it was likely that another
detachment would come in by the evening.

* And the soldier who helped you to pack was
here very early. I told him the lady was asleep, so
he only left this card.'

It was a visiting card with a bent edge ; at the
bottom was written, in pencil and in 'Roman
characters,

•p. P.O.'

' Yes, my friend,' I thought to myself, ' that is
just the souvenir I should have expected you to
leave me after plundering me right and left . . .
a " P. P. C." card ! And my deliverance from
you means destruction to somebody else's woods
house, and garden.'

PG Beneeke, Else Cecilia Mendel-
ssohn

Selected Polish tales

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UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO LIBRARY